“Do you think the song in your cloak—­it dropped on the ground and Nico picked it up—­beautiful or ugly?”

“This one or the other?”

“I mean the Beggar-song.”

“It is fierce, but no more ugly than the roaring of the storm.”

“It is repulsive, barbarous, revolting.”

“I call it strong, overmastering in its power.”

“And this other melody?”

“Spare me an answer; I composed it myself.  Can you read notes, Fraulein?”

“A little.”

“And did my attempt displease you?”

“Not at all, but I find dolorous passages in this choral, as in all the Calvinist hymns.”

“It depends upon how they are sung.”

“They are certainly intended for the voices of the shopkeepers’ wives and washerwomen in your churches.”

“Every hymn, if it is only sincerely felt, will lend wings to the souls of the simple folk who sing it; and whatever ascends to Heaven from the inmost depths of the heart, can hardly displease the dear God, to whom it is addressed.  And then—­”

“Well?”

“If these notes are worth being preserved, it may happen that a matchless choir—­”

“Will sing them to you, you think?”

“No, Fraulein; they have fulfilled their destination if they are once nobly rendered.  I would fain not be absent, but that wish is far less earnest than the other.”

“How modest!”

“I think the best enjoyment in creating is had in anticipation.”

Henrica gazed at the artist with a look of sympathy, and said with a softer tone in her musical voice: 

“I am sorry for you, Meister.  Your music pleases me; why should I deny it?  In many passages it appeals to the heart, but how it will be spoiled in your churches!  Your heresy destroys every art.  The works of the great artists are a horror to you, and the noble music that has unfolded here in the Netherlands will soon fare no better.”

“I think I may venture to believe the contrary.”

“Wrongly, Meister, wrongly, for if your cause triumphs, which may the Virgin forbid, there will soon be nothing in Holland except piles of goods, workshops, and bare churches, from which even singing and organ-playing will soon be banished.”

“By no means, Fraulein.  Little Athens first became the home of the arts, after she had secured her liberty in the war against the Persians.”

“Athens and Leyden!” she answered scornfully.  “True, there are owls on the tower of Pancratius.  But where shall we find the Minerva?”

While Henrica rather laughed than spoke these words, her name was called for the third time by a shrill female voice.  She now interrupted herself in the middle of a sentence, saying: 

“I must go.  I will keep these notes.”

“You will honor me by accepting them; perhaps you will allow me to bring you others.”

“Henrica!” the voice again called from the stairs, and the young lady answered hastily: