itual to him,
and which people compared to the croaking of a raven; it was a hearty,
open laugh, like a child's, and he said:

"Let God's raven lead thee, then, my lad, and the mother shall see if we
don't bring back the bread and meat."

"I did not ask for meat," said Gottlieb, gravely, "only for bread."

"The good God is wont to give more than we either desire or deserve,"
croaked Hans, "when He sets about giving at all."

II.

There was no time to be lost.

The services of the day would soon begin, and Hans had set his heart on
Gottlieb's singing that very day in the cathedral.

The choir-master's eyes sparkled as he listened to the boy; but he was
an austere man, and would not utter a word to make the child think
himself of value.

"Not bad raw material," he said, "but very raw. I suppose thou hast
never before sung a note to any one who understood music?"

"Only for the mother and the little sister," the child replied in a low,
humbled tone, beginning to fear the raven would bring no bread after
all, "and sometimes in the litanies and the processions."

"Sing no more for babes and nurses, and still less among the beggars in
the street-processions," pronounced the master, severely. "It strains
and vulgarizes the tone. And, with training, I don't know but that,
after all, we might make something of thee--in time, in time."

Gottlieb's anxiety mastered his timidity, and he ventured to say:

"Gracious lord! if it is a long time, how can we all wait? I thought it
would be to-day! The mother wants the bread to-day."

Something in the child's earnest face touched the master, and he said,
more gently:

"I did not say you might not _begin_ to-day. You must begin this hour,
this moment. Too much time has been lost already."

And at once he set about the first lesson, scolding and growling about
the child setting his teeth like a dog, and mincing his words like a
fine lady, till poor Gottlieb's hopes more than once sank very low.

But, at the end of a quarter of an hour's practice, the artist in the
choir-master entirely overcame the diplomatist.

He behaved like a madman. He took the child in his arms and hugged him,
like a friendly bear; he set him on the table and made him sing one
phrase again and again, walking round and round him, and rubbing his
hands and laughing with delight; and, finally, he seized him and bore
him in triumph to the kitchen, and said to his housekeeper:

"Ursula, bring out th