The beautiful woman arose from her seat.  Very tall and stately she was.  She took the roll from his hand and lightly hummed the air.

“Did you compose it?” she asked; “you a child!  And the words?  Would you like to come to my concert?” she asked.

“Oh, yes!” and the boy’s eyes grew bright with happiness; “but I couldn’t leave my mother.”

“I will send somebody to take care of your mother for the evening, and there is a crown with which you may go and get food and medicine.  Here is also one of my tickets.  Come to-night; that will admit you to a seat near me.”

Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid, telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune.

When evening came and Pierre was admitted to the concert hall he felt that never in his life had he been in such a place.  The music, the myriad lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of silk, bewildered his eyes and brain.

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 everybody seemed to worship, would really sing his little song?

Breathlessly he waited—­the band, the whole band, struck up a plaintive little melody.  He knew it, and clasped his hands for joy.  And oh, 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.

Pierre walked home as if moving on 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 hands on his yellow curls, and talking 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, 300 pounds 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 tired and tempted, he knelt down by his mother’s bedside and offered a simple but eloquent 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 his day.

TOM.