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 together.  As to Pierre, always mindful of Him who watches over the tried and tempted, he knelt down by his mother’s bedside and uttered a simple prayer, asking God’s blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to notice their affliction.

The memory of that prayer made the singer more tender-hearted, and she, who was the idol of England’s nobility, went about doing good.  And in her early, happy death, he who stood beside her bed and smoothed her pillow, and lightened her last moments by his undying affection, was little Pierre of former days, now rich, accomplished, and the most talented composer of the day.

      O singer of the heart,
      The heart that never dies! 
    The Lord’s interpreter thou art,
      His angel from the skies.

      Thy work on earth is great
      As his who saves a soul,
    Or his who guides the ship of state,
      When mountain-billows roll.

      The life of Heaven comes down
      In gleams of grace and truth;
    Sad mortals see the shining crown
      Of sweet, perennial youth.

      The life of God, in song
      Becomes the life of man;
    Ashamed is he of sin and wrong
      Who hears a Malibran!

* * * * *

X.

GARFIELD.—­MAXIMS.

GATHERED FROM HIS SPEECHES, ADDRESSES, LETTERS, ETC.

I would rather be beaten in right than succeed in wrong.

I feel a profounder reverence for a boy than for a man.  I never meet a ragged boy in the street without feeling that I may owe him a salute, for I know not what possibilities may be buttoned under his coat.