And without waiting for an answer, she seated herself at the piano, and again the clear, silvery voice with its bird-like notes, broke forth on the evening air.  She sang an old, simple ballad, but with such expression, such pathos and sweetness, that a bright spring sunlight seemed to enter and flood the little rooms of the old house.  But no sunshine was half so bright as the joy which lit up the face of the old white-headed man, upon whose forehead lay the shadows of years and sorrow, and on whose cheeks care had pressed deep furrows.  With a half-pathetic, happy smile he listened to the old familiar melody, which spoke to his heart like a voice from his own lost youth.

But he was not the only attentive listener.  The master of Burgsdorf, who had fallen asleep amid the thunders of a military march, and who had felt himself entirely in accord with Tom when she declared music to be stupid, listened almost breathlessly to the enchanting strains.  Such music was a revelation to him.  He sat, leaning forward in his chair, as if fearful of losing a single note, with his eyes fastened upon the pretty maiden, who, singing with all her soul, moved her little head backward and forward with a graceful movement as she warbled forth her sweet song.  When it was ended Willibald leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh, and drew his hand across his eyes.

“My little singing bird,” said Dr. Volkmar tenderly, as he rose and leaned over his grandchild and kissed her forehead.

“Well, grandpapa,” she said teasingly, “has my voice lost anything within the last few months?  But I fear it does not please Herr von Eschenhagen.  He has no word of commendation for me.”

She turned to Willibald with the assumed sulky look of a spoiled child.  He rose now and came over to her.

A slight flush diffused his face, and in his eyes, usually so expressionless, shone a new light.

“Oh, it was very beautiful!”

The young singer might be forgiven for having expected something more then these few embarrassed words; but she felt the deep, honest admiration which they conveyed, and understood at once that her song had deeply impressed the taciturn stranger.  She smiled pleasantly as she replied: 

“Yes, it is a sweet song.  I have scored more than one triumph singing it as an encore.”

“As an encore?” repeated Will, with no idea of what she meant.

“Yes, at the theatre, which I have just left to visit grandpapa.  I was such a success, grandpapa, and the director wanted me to give up all my vacation, but I had surrendered so much of it already to suit him that I declared I would have these few weeks with you.”

Willibald listened to all this with increasing astonishment.  Theatre, vacation, director, what did it all mean?  The doctor noticed his astonishment.

“Herr von Eschenhagen does not know what you are, my child,” he said quietly.  “My granddaughter has been educated for an opera singer.”