“‘Fine sewing and embroidery’—_fine suffering and death_!” said Franz, suddenly letting loose his pent-up wrath. “Mr. Cory, would you kill the child? She is frailer than a flower, a sickly little thing, and crippled. One month’s stooping over a needle would put her in the grave. I thought for a moment, but an hour ago, that she was dead.” As he spoke the last word he left his seat, and, taking up the lamp, said,—“Come with me, and step lightly.” Utterly taken aback at the sudden outburst of the music-master, Mr. Cory followed him across the hall, saw him open the door of the opposite room, and motion him to enter. Then he said, in a quiet voice, while he shaded the lamp carefully with his hand, so that its rays did not fall directly upon the face of the child,— “Look at her.” The man stepped forward, but almost immediately drew back, with a shiver, from the sleeper, whose repose so strangely resembled death. She lay upon the sofa, with her hands folded across her breast, as when she had at first fallen into slumber. Franz stood intently regarding her, when suddenly his guest, coming up close to him, said, with his rough voice dropped into a frightened whisper, and his eyes looking quickly about the room,— “Where does it come from?” “What?” asked Franz, startled by his singular manner. “Do you hear it?” “Hear what?” “The music.” “Music!” exclaimed Franz, dropping his voice also to a whisper, and involuntarily suspending his breath for a moment—“no, I hear no music.” “It did not seem like the piano or organ. It must have been the wind in the trees outside, but it sounded just like a strain of music. We had better go, or we may waken her,” said Mr. Cory, as he turned to the door, and drew one hand across his forehead, where the perspiration had collected in drops, although the evening was cold and the air chilly. Franz followed him out, springing the latch gently with his hand as it caught, and they both went back to the piano-room. Here Mr. Cory seemed to recover somewhat of his usual composure. “Well, Erckman, she does look thin and delicate-like, but sewing won’t hurt her, not a bit. She’ll be better when she’s got something to do. She can’t exist on air, and she can’t live in idleness. She has got nothing, and it’s the only way I know of she can make her living. She must do work of some kind for support.” Before Franz’s eyes there floated visions of broad and fertile acres, of fine cattle, of fine clothes, of fine houses, but “she must do work of some kind for support,” so he said nothing, while the church-elder continued,— “There is James Maxwell going to the city to-morrow, and my wife said we had better send her to the school by him.”