Father Francis had resolved to strike a blow for his _protégé_ before the day was over. Just as Lord Eltonville was preparing to depart, he told him that there was a little chorister among his flock who had a lovely voice, and that if his lordship would oblige him by staying through the short prayer with which they were about to end the day's pleasure he would hear the boy sing. The nobleman graciously complied, and stood, hat in hand, while the priest said a Paternoster and three Aves, the children joining in fervently. Then Father Francis rose and sat at the harmonium. His lordship watched George take his place beside his spiritual director. He noticed the lad's pale, worn face, his ragged clothes, and his air of utter helplessness, and felt sorry that the good priest should have prevailed upon him to stay and witness the poor little fellow's failure. There was not a sound in the schoolroom. The grand ladies held their breath in pity. Miss Brand looked anxious. The children longed for the success of their gentle comrade, and Maggie's heart beat with suppressed excitement. "_Te Deum Laudamus, te Dominum confitemur._" The voice seemed to pierce the heavens, so fresh and pure was its tone. Lord Eltonville's heart stood still. The waif's face had changed with those first words of praise; it had become illuminated with a great light, his insignificant little figure had gained a king's dignity. "_Te æternum Patrem omnis terra veneratur._" Lord Eltonville's imagination was fired by the music. He seemed to be in a little church of his own that was full of the perfume of incense. The low of distant oxen and the ripple of the river came through the open window. His only son, who died at about George's age, lay buried in the churchyard; the small grave was yellow with early primroses. He, too, had an angel's voice, stilled for ever excepting in his father's memory. "_Tu Rex gloriæ, Christe._" Tears fell from the nobleman's eyes. Nor song of lark, nor rustle of waving grass, nor anything he had ever heard in all nature, had touched him so deeply as the waif's rendering of that hymn of praise. As the last words died away Lord Eltonville stepped forward with outstretched hand; but George's strength was exhausted, the flush died away from his face, and he fell backwards into the priest's arms. IV. Time and circumstances change men, some for good and some for ill. It is an acknowledged fact that success often spoils the best natures, although to those on whom Fortune seldom smiles, this is hard to realise. Thanks to Lord Eltonville's generosity and kind care, George Ermen had become a great man. His wish had been gratified; he had earned money and position. Twenty years had passed since the geranium show. The ragged waif of that day had owned a sweet, loving nature, which seemed lost in the great musician of St. James's.