Mr. Wenck seemed disposed to accept the invitation:  then, as he was about to pass through the gate, he was stayed by a recollection apparently, for he turned back, saying, “Not to-night, Brother Loretz.  They will need all the time for practice.  Let me tell you, I admire your daughter Elise beyond expression.  I wish that Mr. Spener could hear that voice now:  it is perfectly triumphant.  You are happy, sir, in having such a daughter.”

As Mr. Wenck turned from the gate, Leonhard—­our Leonhard Marten—­approached swiftly from the opposite side of the street.  He had been sitting under the trees half an hour listening to the singing, and, full of enthusiasm, now presented himself before Mr. Loretz, exclaiming, “Do tell me, sir, what singers are these?”

Mr. Loretz knew every man in Spenersberg.  He looked at the stranger, and answered dryly, “Very tolerable singers.”

“I should think so!  I never heard anything so glorious.  I am a stranger here, sir.  Can you direct me to a public-house?”

To answer was easy.  There was but the one inn, called the Brethren’s House, the sixth below the one before which they were standing.  It was a long house, painted white, with a deep wide porch, where half a dozen young men probably sat smoking at this moment.  Instead of giving this direction, however, Loretz said, after a brief consultation with himself, “I don’t know as there’s another house in Spenersberg that ought to be as open as mine.  I live here, sir.  How long have you been listening?”

“Not long enough,” said Leonhard; and he passed through the gate, which had been opened for the minister, and now was opened as widely for him.

* * * * *

CHAPTER III.

HIGH ART.

The room into which Mr. Loretz conducted Leonhard seemed to our young friend, as he glanced around it, fit for the court of Apollo.  Its proportions had obviously been assigned by some music-loving soul.  It occupied two-thirds of the lower floor of the house, and its high ceiling was a noticeable feature.  The furniture had all been made at the factory; the floor-mats were woven there; and one gazing around him might well have wondered to what useful or ornamental purpose the green willows growing everywhere in Spenersberg Valley might not be applied.  The very pictures hanging on the wall—­engraved likenesses of the great masters Mozart and Beethoven—­had their frames of well-woven willow twigs; and the rack which held the books and sheets of music was ornamented on each side with raised wreaths of flowers wrought by deft hands from the same pliant material.

At the piano, in the centre of the room, sat Sister Benigna—­by her side, Elise Loretz.

It seemed, when Elise’s father entered with the stranger, as if there might be a suspension of the performance, but Loretz said, “Two listeners don’t signify:  we promise to make no noise.  Sit down, sir:  give me your bag;” and taking Leonhard’s satchel, he retired with it to a corner, where he sat down, and with his elbows on his knees, his head between his hands, prepared himself to listen.