ender thread, improvised so
finely--allowing his feelings to flow into the music as he went
on--that a bystander could not fail to have been struck by the change
which came over Mozart's face as he listened. The abstracted look gave
place to one of pure astonishment. Then he arose from his seat, and,
stepping softly into an adjoining room, where a number of his friends
were waiting to see him, he exclaimed, 'Pay attention to this young
man, for he will make a noise in the world some day.' Beethoven,
meanwhile, played on and on, lost in the intricate melodies which he
was weaving out of the single thread, until the touch of Mozart's hand
upon his shoulder recalled him to earth to hear the master's praises
sounding in his ear.

Vanished in a moment were the memories of the trials and hardships
which he had undergone in order to perfect himself for this day of
trial, for Beethoven realised that he possessed the power of
impressing so great a judge as Mozart; and praise and encouragement
were needed at that time, when he was trying to do his best, rather
than later on, when his powers were assured. Nor was this the only
recognition which his talents received on his visit. The fame of the
young player had reached the ears of royalty itself, and he was
granted an audience of the Emperor Joseph, whose love of music had
made him desirous of hearing for himself what the Bonn performer could
do.

[Illustration: "_Pay attention to this young man, for he will
make a noise in the world some day._"]

Beethoven's happiness, however, was soon to be clouded by sorrow, for
shortly after his return to Bonn his mother died--the mother to whom
he owed so much gentleness and sympathy in his childhood; she who was
always ready to forgive his outbursts of temper and impatience, and
to cheer and encourage him to further effort. How deeply he felt her
loss may be gathered from the letter which he wrote to a friend at the
time. 'She was, indeed, a kind, loving mother to me, and my best
friend. Ah! who was happier than I, when I could still utter the sweet
name of mother, and it was heard? But to whom can I now say it? Only
to the silent form resembling her, evoked by the power of
imagination.' That her death inspired some of his most beautiful
compositions we may suppose, for it is natural that his grief should
have found its best expression in music. A few months later his little
sister Margaretha died, and the sense of loneliness de