THE RAVENS AND THE ANGELS.

(A Story of the Middle Ages.)

By the author of “Chronicles of the SCHOeNBERG-Cotta family.”

CHAPTER III.

The next day, Gottlieb began his training among the other choristers.

It was not easy.

The choir-master showed his appreciation of his raw treasure by straining every nerve to make it as perfect as possible; and therefore he found more fault with Gottlieb than with any one else.

The other boys might, he could not but observe, sing carelessly enough, so that the general harmony was pretty good; but every note of his seemed as if it were a solo which the master’s ear never missed, and not the slightest mistake was allowed to pass.

The other choristers understood very well what this meant, and some of them were not a little jealous of the new favorite, as they called him.  But to little Gottlieb it seemed hard and strange.  He was always straining to do his very best, and yet he never seemed to satisfy.  The better he did, the better the master wanted him to do, until he grew almost hopeless.

He would not, for the world, complain to his mother; but on the third evening she observed that he looked very sad and weary, and seemed scarcely to have spirits to play with Lenichen.

She knew it is of little use to ask little children what ails them, because so often their trouble is that they do not know.  Some little delicate string within is jarred, and they know nothing of it, and think the whole world is out of tune.  So she quietly put Lenichen to bed, and after the boy had said his prayers as usual at her knee, she laid her hand on his head, and caressingly stroked his fair curls, and then she lifted up his face to hers and kissed the little troubled brow and quivering lips.

“Dear little golden mouth!” she said, fondly, “that earns bread, and sleep, for the little sister and for me!  I heard the sweet notes to-day, and I thanked God.  And I felt as if the dear father was hearing them too, even through the songs in heaven.”

The child’s heart was opened, the quivering lips broke into a sob, and the face was hidden on her knee.

“It will not be for long, mother!” he said.  “The master has found fault with me more than ever to-day.  He made me sing passage after passage over and over, until some of the boys were quite angry, and said, afterward, they wished I and my voice were with the old hermit who houses us.  Yet he never seemed pleased.  He did not even say it was any better.”

“But he never gave you up, darling!” she said.

“No; he only told me to come early, alone, to-morrow, and he would give me a lesson by myself, and perhaps I should learn better.”

A twinkle of joy danced in her eyes, dimmed with so many tears.