The solemn tramp of the Lutheran measures, where the deep basses of the men drown the women's soft voices, and the shrill unshaded singing of the children, could hardly belong to this art, which he heard now for the first time. These sudden runs and trills, so fantastic and difficult, these chords and harmonies, so quaint and full of colour, were messages from a world of sound, as yet an unknown country to the boy. He stood gazing upon the singer with open mouth. The Prince moved his jewelled hand slightly in unison with the notes; the monkey, apparently rather scared, left off cracking his nuts, and, creeping close to his master, nestled against his beautiful coat close to the star upon his breast. Then suddenly, in this world of wonders, a still more wonderful thing occurred. There entered into this bewitching, this entrancing voice, a strange, almost a discordant, note. Through the fantasied gaiety of the theme, to which the sustained whirr of the harpsichord was like the sigh of the wind through the long grass, there was perceptible a strain, a tremor of sadness, almost of sobs. It was as if, in the midst of festival, some hidden grief, known beforetime of all, but forgotten or suppressed, should at once and in a moment well up in the hearts of all, turning the dance-measures into funeral chants, the love-songs into the loveliest of chorales. The Maestro faltered in his accompaniment; the Prince left off marking the time, he swept the monkey from him with a movement of his hand, and leaned forward eagerly in his seat: the discarded favourite slunk into a corner, where it leaned disconsolately against the wall. The pathetic strain went on, growing more tremulous and more intense, when suddenly the singing stopped, the girl buried her face in her hands and sank upon the floor in a passion of tears; the boy sprang forward, he forgot where he was, he forgot the Prince-- "It is the bird," he cried, "the bird!" The canary, whose dying struggles the singer had been watching through her song, gave a final shudder and fell lifeless from its perch. The Prince rose: he lifted the singer from her knees, and, taking her hands from the wet face, he turned to the others with a smile. "Ah, Herr Chaplain," he said, "you come in a good hour. This then is the angel-child. They will console each other." And, picking up the monkey as he passed, he left the room by another door. III. WHEN the Prince was gone the Maestro gathered up some music and turned to his pupil, who was drying her eyes and looking somewhat curiously at the boy through her tears. "Well, Signorina," he said, "you truly sang that very well. If you could bring some of that 'timbre' into your voice always, you would indeed be a singer. But you are too light, too 'frivole.' I wish we could have a canary always who would die;" and, bowing very slightly to the Chaplain, he left the room. Then the Chaplain looked kindly at the young people.