ch. 'What are you doing? Where have you been
living?' continued the questioner, drawing the youth into the light of
a lamp, and regarding his pale, tired face with astonishment.

[Illustration: HAYDN.
From photo RISCHGITZ.]

'Nothing--nowhere. I am starving, that is all,' was the reply.

'Starving--you! This is Reutter's handiwork,' said the other angrily.
'Have you seen your brother Michael? I met them coming out just now.
Was he not with the rest?' he added in a gentler tone, still keeping
his hand on the lad's shoulder.

'Yes, he was there; but he didn't see me,' replied the wanderer
hesitatingly, adding, 'I was afraid the others might notice my
distress.'

The friend bit his lip and seemed to be meditating. At last he spoke.
'Well, see here, Joseph, we cannot stand longer in the rain; come home
with me. You know I haven't a palace to offer you, but such as it is
you are welcome to a share of it for one night at least.' And so
saying he drew Joseph's arm within his own, and, bidding him walk
fast, the pair quitted the square.

Well might honest Franz Spangler, who held no higher or more lucrative
post than that of tenor singer in the choir of St. Michael's Church,
warn his young friend not to expect the luxury of a home replete with
comforts. Indeed, anyone comparing the two young men as they threaded
the narrow streets leading to Spangler's abode would have found it no
easy matter to determine which presented the shabbier appearance;
though, having decided this point to his satisfaction, he would have
been at no trouble in estimating the sort of house to which the
chorister would be likely to introduce his friend.

Situated in the poorest quarter of the town, the house presented a
sufficiently poverty-stricken appearance to warrant the meanest
opinion being entertained with regard to Spangler's powers of
hospitality. The kind-hearted singer was, in fact, almost as poor as
the youth whom he had befriended, with the additional responsibility
entailed by a wife and child. Nevertheless, to the homeless, starving
lad who now followed his protector up the crazy stairs leading to the
garret which comprised the latter's home, the chorister seemed by
comparison prosperous and well-to-do. Was it not luxury to be invited
to seat himself beside the scanty fire burning in the stove, and to
feel its warmth slowly penetrating to his chilled bones? Was it not
luxury to one who had tramped the streets--those endless