are too poor
to get food and medicine. I thought, perhaps, that if you would sing my
little song at some of your grand concerts, may be some publisher would
buy it for a small sum, and so I could get food and medicine for my
mother."

The beautiful woman arose from her seat. Very tall and stately she was.
She took the little roll from his hand and lightly hummed the air.

"Did you compose it?" she asked; "you, a child! And the words? Would you
like to come to my concert?" she asked.

"O yes!" and the boy's eyes grew bright with happiness; "but I couldn't
leave my mother."

"I will send somebody to take care of your mother for the evening, and
here is a crown with which you may go and get food and medicine. Here is
also one of my tickets. Come to-night; that will admit you to a seat
near me."

Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a
little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid,
telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune.

When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the concert hall, he felt
that never in his life had he been in so great a place. The music, the
myriad lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of
silks bewildered his eyes and brain.

At last she came, and the child sat with his glance riveted on her
glorious face. Could he believe that the grand lady, all blazing with
jewels, and whom every body seemed to worship, would really sing his
little song?

Breathless he waited; the band--the whole band--struck up a plaintive
little melody. He knew it, and clasped his hands for joy. And O, how she
sang it! It was so simple, so mournful. Many a bright eye dimmed with
tears, and naught could be heard but the touching words of that little
song--O, so touching!

Pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air.

What cared he for money now? The greatest singer in all Europe had sung
his little song, and thousands had wept at his grief.

The next day he was frightened at a visit from Madame Malibran. She laid
her hand on his yellow curls, and, turning to the sick woman, said,
"Your little boy, madame, has brought you a fortune. I was offered this
morning, by the best publisher in London, $1,500 for his little song;
and, after he has realized a certain amount from the sale, little Pierre
here is to share the profits. Madame, thank God that your son has a gift
from heaven."

The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept to