A VIENNESE STORY

I.

Winter, hard and merciless as a tax collector, stalked threateningly before the dilapidated doors of Vienna's poor.

Back of the white Tanneries, not far from the magnificently built Franz Josef's bridge, where misery and dire poverty had made their dreary home for many decades, winter seemed harder and colder than elsewhere; for with the poor wretched creatures who dwell near these Tanneries, there is—as everybody knows—but little sympathy.

A sweet-looking girl, hardly fourteen years of age, came shivering with bent head, out of one of the poorest and dirtiest homesteads of the poverty-stricken district.

Her thin, threadbare gingham dress, torn in many places, exposed here and there the trembling little form beneath. Over it she wore an old, shabby-looking plaid shawl—apparently her mother's—which blown back now and again by the unceremonious wind, exposed to view an old violin. She held it as tight as if it were the only earthly treasure she possessed. A ribbon, that had once been blue, held up her knotted hair, and gave her the appearance of a gipsy. And as for her shoes, it would seem that only the upper part had preserved a right to the name; for her stiff-frozen little toes were almost on the ground.

She walked on and on, greatly oppressed, giving no heed to the cruel wind that played havoc with her fluttering curls. Her large black eyes, which held a singular fascination in their sparkling depths, were now filled with burning tears.

She was barely on the threshold of girlhood, but life in its unfathomable savagery, had already thrown its challenging gauntlet in her frightened, childish face. She felt instinctively that poor little outcast as she was, she must not shrink from battle, but struggle on as best she could either with cruel wind and weather or with bitter cold and want.

She had struggled bravely, never minding how fruitless her little efforts seemed. But the one thing to which she had never accustomed herself, and which made a storm of tears rain down her pale face, was the frightful apparition of the hollow-eyed skeleton, hunger—that hunger which now held sway over her sick mother's house.

A heavy, shuddering sigh broke from her lips. The utter need and helplessness of her mother and four smaller sisters, for days deprived of all necessaries of life, even of bread to satisfy their hunger, had driven her from the house, their cries and lamentations still ringing in her ears.

"Poor and friendless, with no one to care for us, and poor, dear mother lying ill," she moaned in a suffocating voice, wiping tears of agony from her white face. "It wrings my heart to see her and the little ones so hungry," she said to herself, sobbing aloud.

Near the Franz Josef's bridge she saw a little tavern. She timidly opened the door and entered, quickly producing the old violin. The instrument was the only bequest of her dear father, who had been a musician, and who had instructed her in this art, detecting at an early age her ardent love of study and thirst for a musical education.

Standing near the open door, she first played an obligato which she executed in masterly fashion, and then commenced to sing an old German song, so touchingly—knowing what was at stake—that the people in the tavern, and many passers-by who stopped in amazement at the door, gazed with wondering eyes at the ragged little dark-eyed girl hardly grown out of her baby shoes; and many of them, moved by deep pity, though poor themselves, tossed one, and some of them two coins into her apron. More they could not afford to give, lest their liberality might eventually expose them to the same plight.

Christine beamed with happiness. When her song was finished, she quickly took out of her apron her gathered treasure, counting it with shining eyes. Twenty kreutzers—she counted them again and again. Her stiff little fingers could not hold all at once, but her eyes, wet with happy emotion, were fastened on each of them, and her heart leaped within her at the sight. So many she had never before earned.

She folded her hands as if in fervent prayer, and lifted her dark eyes to Heaven in gratitude, thinking of the joy she would bring to her mother and half-starved sisters when she returned home with an apron-full of fresh baked rolls.

"Say,—Miss—won't ye let me carry yer—fiddle?"

The whisper sank into her ear. She turned hastily around, and saw a poorly-dressed shoemaker's apprentice standing near, gazing at her with his large blue eyes. In his hands he held an old pair of shoes.

He stood, quite silent, with enthusiasm for Christine's exquisite singing beaming from every feature. Presently, with a timid grin, he held out the pair of shoes.

"Here, Miss. I ain't got no money, but I'd like badly ter give you them shoes—er—ter show you that I like good singing. Yes, I do, an' ye sing mighty well," he said, looking admiringly at her and getting as red in the face as an over-ripe apple. "I'll surely get a good cuff or two from master for giving them away, but a shoemaker's boy is used to that, and doesn't care a rap if once in a while he takes a good piff, paff, pouff!" With this exclamation of Meyerbeerian bravado, he demonstrated the operatic knowledge of an up-to-date Viennese apprentice.

"HERE, MISS, I AIN'T GOT NO MONEY, BUT I'D LIKE TER GIV YER THEM SHOES."

Christine looked at him with shining eyes. She understood only one thing—that he wanted to give her a pair of shoes, which, in her estimation seemed almost new. She beamed at him so gratefully with her large, dark eyes, that the embarrassed apprentice, who was about two years older than she, felt a hot wave running down his spine. Never had a lovelier face or sweeter eyes smiled so kindly at the bewildered boy.

"They're yourn, an'—ye'd better try 'em on—an' see if they'll fit," he stammered bashfully. This strange, heavenly shyness was a new sensation for the rough apprentice lad. Until this moment he had never known that there existed such an organ as a palpitating heart within his body.

And before Christine knew how, the new shoes were on her feet. Shoes without holes! Goodness! how could it have happened? And without holes!

"I hope I am not dreaming," she murmured to herself, her face aglow.

"Will ye let me go with ye?" asked the simple-hearted boy, his eyes downcast.

"No—not now; but—on Sunday you can come."

"To yer house? My name is Peter," he replied, greatly bewildered, as he could not think—to save his soul—of anything more important than his name.

"Yes, to my house; and then you can go with me and carry the violin," Christine answered with a sweet smile. But suddenly, ashamed of her boldness, she stopped and counted her kreutzers again.

Peter, however, looked at her with such admiration in his big blue eyes, that something like an electric spark shot through her. Such a happy sensation she had never felt; for no one had ever spoken such kind, encouraging words to her. A tinge of red leaped into her pale cheeks; there was a trembling pant in her voice, when, with averted face, she told him the street and number. Tucking her violin under her arm, she ran quickly up the street.

At the nearest bakery she stopped in order to buy the coveted rolls. But Peter, still under the charm of her large, expressive eyes, stood as if rooted to the ground, gazing after her and listening to the receding tap-tap of the little shoes on her feet, which he now realized belonged to some one else. He began to dread the expected punishment, which he knew would be meted out, not so much in curtain lectures as in striking actions, and for some time he stood stock still, racking his brain for an excuse to make their singular disappearance plausible. But his natural light-heartedness soon got the better of him. Shrugging his shoulders, and singing "Piff, paff, pouff, brennet sie," he rushed away, ready to meet his inexorable fate.

II.

"Goodness! you haven't eaten anything all day long, and I bet you're feeble," cried Mrs. Langohr, the next-door neighbor of Christine's mother, throwing the door of her miserable two-room apartment wide open, so that all the neighbors should hear, and praise her charitable inclinations. "O, my God, have mercy on them poor little worms! I must go and make a little farina soup for 'em. See, that's what I am getting out of the Bible! Be good to yer neighbor," she said in a loud tone, apparently for the benefit of the poorly-clad and shy-looking women at the windows.

"O, holy Father in Heaven! Just look here," she screamed, amazed when Christine suddenly appeared with twenty hot rolls in her apron, showing them triumphantly to the neighbors. And rushing into the apartment, she, with a gladdened heart, distributed them among the starving children.

The feeble mother with eyes full of tears, glancing thankfully toward Heaven, listened to Christine's wonderful story about the shoes and the twenty kreutzers. It seemed incredible. So much happiness in one day! And Christine's beautiful smile seemed to fill the squalid room with radiance when she thought of Sunday and the expected arrival of the shoemaker's bashful boy.

Her happiness increased day by day; for every Sunday Peter punctually arrived, always bringing some unusual delicacies with him, and accepting gladly Christine's consent to carry the violin. In fact, he carried it with such dignity and pride, that, standing behind her, it often happened that he bowed his acknowledgment to the audience at the end of each morceau, quite as if he were her partner and one of the performing artists. Then he would take his old cap and gather the contributions, always returning them faithfully to Christine. Every piece of wood that he could deftly worm out of his mistress' household, he carried to Mrs. Miller, Christine's mother, to warm the chilled little limbs of her starving children.

His mistress, the shoemaker's wife, often wondered that the cooked potatoes disappeared from the dinner table as suddenly as if the earth had swallowed them up. She certainly could not imagine that they invariably disappeared into Peter's side-pockets although his occasional grimaces and the red spots on his sensitive skin bore open testimony.

"Now, now, goodness! what's the matter with you, rascal?" the surprised mistress would cry, viewing amazedly his distorted face. And one day, in spite of his Spartan heroism, Peter could not stand it any longer.

"I am sick—stomach-ache—" he stammered, vainly trying to compose himself, and even forcing a sickly smile to his pale lips.

"You grown-up earthworm, you! The idea of having stomach-ache every day at this time!" she responded angrily, adding a few choice words out of her voluminous vocabulary. But being not bad at heart, sympathy soon gained the upper hand, and she said in a milder tone, giving him a small coin with a gesture indicative of large liberality—"Here, you stupid nuisance, you! Go and get a penny's worth of English bitters."

Peter did not require a second command to leave the room. He took the hint and the penny and went straight to Christine's house. But once outside, and in respectable distance from his mistress' observing eyes, he quickly removed the red-hot potatoes from his pant's pockets.

Peter had always been accustomed to save the tips that he received from his master's patrons when he carried home their shoes—chiefly for Sunday nights, that he might enjoy a seat in the last gallery at the theatre. And my! hadn't he been proud and happy when sitting there in his best well-worn suit, and hearing those wonderful songs, "Belle Helene," in Offenbach's toneful operetta, and others which he could not get out of his head for months.

Sometimes, if he had any money left, he would indulge in such luxuries as a half herring and a glass of Pilsner, being a great gourmand. But since he had come to know Christine, everything seemed to have changed. He no longer went to the theatre, but saved all his tips, and went about as if a secret were hidden in his breast.

"Oh, Mrs. Langohr," cried Christine's mother, one cold morning to her next-door neighbor. "Don't laugh, for it is true. Peter has bought a dress for Christine, a winter dress, just imagine!"

Mrs. Langohr held up her hands in amazement. But it was really true. Peter had bought Christine, with his savings, a warm dress, at a second-hand store. Christine was beside herself with joy; she had never known in these days what it was to have a warm rag on her back, and her gratitude welled up and overflowed in her sparkling eyes.

As Christmas-time gradually approached, Mrs. Miller, feeling much better in health, commenced to perform her household duties. But Christine's earnings from her singing and violin diminished as the holidays drew near, and the simple little income seemed about to vanish altogether. Even Peter's pour-boire money threatened to cease, causing him restless nights and much down-heartedness. This discouraging condition of things took all his former desire for playing pranks out of the formerly gay-spirited shoemaker's boy.

And when pious processions of tired pilgrims passed through the streets of Vienna, singing and praying on their way to church, he no longer played any of his old mischievous tricks on them, but took off his hat devoutly, and marched along, praying with folded hands and wet eyes.

"Blessed Virgin—be good to her—I pray to thee—but not for myself—no; only for Christine—she lives under the white Tanneries—only for her I pray!"

III.

A chilling north wind whistled through the deserted streets of the Austrian metropolis, and the snow, towering mountain high, driven by the gale, whirled blindingly around the muffled, shivering pedestrians, hastening hurriedly to their respective homes.

The Franzenering, where the Viennese aristocrats are accustomed to meet in the afternoon hours, to drink tea, consume little cakes and indulge in gay conversations, today was totally empty. No one, it seemed, had ventured to brave the storm, in spite of the attractive display in the show-windows of elegantly designed gowns and hats. And these same show windows were certainly remarkable, for all adornments dear to the feminine heart, wonderful achievements of unusual millinery effects, dazzled the eyes of both young and old.

Christine, holding her violin with stiffened little fingers, stood pale and trembling before one of the most magnificent windows, speechless with wonder, gazing as if in a trance at this modern splendor of feminine attire, the like of which she had never conceived even in her wildest, most fantastic dreams.

Her heart contracted painfully. She thought of her mother and little sisters, freezing, half-starved, hopelessly expectant of Christmas, and her glorious eyes blurred with tears, as she remembered that she, as the bread-winner of the family, was not able to buy them anything for Christmas, not even bread enough to satisfy their hunger. For the first time in her life, she could not think of God and Heaven without bitterness for it seemed that he had indeed forsaken her and her family.

"O God, I thought I was doing my best," she stammered with burning tears running down her blanched face. "What have we done, that we of all others, should die of hunger?" The future stretched before her inner vision, a weary blank, lit by no ray of hope. Convulsively, she clutched the old violin, and wandered away, farther and farther into the raging storm, drifting wherever the wind blew, without aim and without purpose or hope.

The north wind in its increasing fury, commenced to batter tin roofs, chimney-tops, blinds, awnings, flag-poles, as if a giant hand were at work, while odds and ends of debris fell crashing into the streets to bury themselves in the drifts. Those unfortunates who were compelled to brave the elements, fought their way onward like wild beasts, cursing, shouting and screaming aloud.

Half-frozen, nearly blinded by the storm and the hail that cut her delicate face like a knife, Christine suddenly found herself before the open portal of a palatial house. Driven by a momentary impulse for shelter from the cold, penetrating blast, she entered. At once a ray of hope illumined her desolate face. Now, if she were to try once more, and sing for these rich people, warm and comfortable behind those windows!

Quickly she withdrew her violin from its battered case, and began in quivering tones to sing the Lorelei her father had taught her, before anyone was aware of her presence. The wonderful tones of her high soprano rang through the stately mansion, vibrating clear and penetrating all the rooms.

"Here, here, the impertinence!" cried the irritated porter, jumping out of his porter's lodge, pale with anger, and pointing to a sign conspicuously hanging in the entrance of the spacious porte-cochere. "How dare you, mean little baggage, you! Can't you see that beggers and organ-grinders are not allowed to enter here? Heh! screaming at the top of her voice in such weather! Get out! get out! quick! march!" His tone was sneering, and his lips curled contemptuously as he waved his hand disdainfully for her to leave the courtyard.

Greatly frightened and trembling in all her frozen little limbs, Christine was about to obey, and covered her violin, timidly looking at the porter's ugly red face, when suddenly a window on the first floor was flung open. The elegant form of a middle-aged man, with gold-rimmed eye-glasses, leaning out of the window, gave the porter so imperious a command to withdraw at once, that the startled man, hardly daring to lift his eyes to this illustrious personage, retired with many a bob and scrape to his porter's lodge.

Christine, greatly encouraged by this incident, and anxious to use the opportunity, began to sing anew; for she thought that if she won the favor of the man at the window, it must surely mean help for her sorely-tried family. So she sang the Lorelei again—sang overpoweringly those lovely, mystic notes—"Das hat mit threm singen die Lorelei gethan."

The superb sound burst forth from the little shivering form, rocked here and there by the raging storm, and seemed to breathe the longings and distress of a pure childish soul. This piteous appeal for help through the medium of Listz's greatest legendary love-song, was not without effect.

"Superb—a phenomenon—a star!" murmured the man at the window in amazement. He leaned out into the storm, gazing intently at the young singer, for he was no less a personage than Duke Hohenlohe, the greatest musical critic and enthusiast in all Vienna. He withdrew from the window, closing it with a snap.

Christine was speechless with joy, and her dark, glowing eyes flashed in excited bewilderment when a richly liveried butler came down the stairs into the courtyard, handing her five gulden and demanding her address. She stood there—her face flushed with wonder, and her childish lips parted as if hearing the magic music of another world. Cyclones of wind, thundering waves of ice and snow were forgotten. Hope had entered her heart, and with the five gulden clasped tightly to her breast, she made her way out of the courtyard, past the porter's lodge into the street. She hurried along as best she could, her heart singing a holy song of gratitude, and her lips smiling at the thought of the happiness she was bringing to those at home. The last part of the way she ran and burst into the room where the family were huddled over a few half dead coals, like a childish almoner of plenty, stammering out her tale.

"It must have been the Lord holy, Jesus Christ, who had mercy on me and my children," cried the invalid mother, trembling with excitement, and folding her thin hands devoutly. "O Lord," she continued, "most mighty and most merciful Saviour of all the widows and orphans, accept the lowly thanks of a poor invalid." She looked up to Heaven with a gladdened heart as she saw her children happy, and for once, well-fed.

But Christine sat in a corner of the poorly furnished room as if in a dream. A vague, confused remembrance of all that had happened in the courtyard filled her with bewilderment. The only thing she really saw plainly was the joyous faces around her, the result of her gift—the five gulden she had received.

IV.

The whole neighborhood was in an uproar. A score of tongues were wagging, ears were cocked to hear the news, and gesticulations and cries were everywhere. Even the invalids of the white Tanneries with their ridiculous looking caps, stretched their shaky heads out of the windows in order to listen to the great news related by Mrs. Langohr, the wandering gossip-monger of this poverty-stricken district.

"A real Count has heard her on Christmas Eve, you say?"

"A Count! Naw! Something higher up, smarty," snapped the gossip-monger, raising her voice to a shrill pitch and throwing herself into the proper attitude of importance. "It was a Duke if you want to know it. Yes, he heard her, and yesterday sent his carriage for her."

"His carriage!" echoed the crowd, and fell back amazed, unwilling to trust their own ears.

"With four white horses attached to it," added Mrs. Langohr with a triumphant laugh. "A girl from our suburb, imagine!"

"Hump! that's a greater miracle than the stories of the returning Pilgrims from Rome," sniffed an old, wrinkled woman, shaking her ludicrously shaped head with a certain vehemence and "soit disant" dignity which eminently befitted one enjoying the reputation of the female Socrates of the suburb.

The nightcaps at the windows commenced to shake visibly, and a heated argument of possible reasons for this exciting event followed.

"What will he do with her?" asked the female Socrates with solemnity, wiping each wrinkle separately with a dubious-looking red handkerchief, a sign that she intended to cross-examine everybody rigidly.

"What he—the Duke will do? He will make a great singer out of her, smarty," sneered the next-door neighbor, disappearing quickly indoors, to the great disappointment of the neighbors who had gathered for the purpose of hearing the great news at first hand with all the details.

"A great singer?" asked the shaky nightcaps at the windows, with dubious smiles, ignorant of what had gone before, and looking in blank amazement at each other. "Who—who is he?"

But so it had actually happened.

Christine had attracted first the attention, then the interest of Duke Hohenlohe, and had been placed in the Vienna Conservatory of Music. Here, as a protege of one of its principal patrons, she was being carefully instructed by the most prominent singing teachers of the institution, and making extraordinary progress.

But poor Peter! He had become so downcast at the loss of his little friend, that he cared nothing for even the merriest of his former pranks, and spent his time in counting the days until he could see her again. He had promised Christine before she had gone to the Conservatory, to help her family in every way he could, and what Peter promised, he kept faithfully. But, oh! how dear Christine had become to him—how necessary to his very existence! He gladly deprived himself of even the barest necessities of life in order to be of service to her and the mother and sisters she loved.

Now—in the few months that she had been living near the Conservatory, how tall and beautiful she had grown, and what depths of expression lay in her dark, speaking eyes! Goodness! the simple-hearted shoemaker's boy felt his heart leap and tremble, when he dared to look into their sparkling wells of light, they followed him whether he waked or slept.

He saw them in his grimy little shop, talked to them when he was sewing on buttons, or knocking vigorously at the hard, unresponsive leather, and smiled happily at the visionary picture always before his mind's eye, to the great astonishment of his observing mistress.

So five years sped by—five years which seemed five eternities to Peter's love-sick heart. But these five years had developed the pretty, sad-eyed girl into a beautiful, graceful woman, with a clever vigorous intellect, and an ambition to reach the highest eminence within the grasp of true womanhood and constant endeavor in the world of song.

So there was but little time to give poor Peter, as her approaching debut was near, and Christine studied night and day, with tireless energy, the important roles which she would be expected to portray.

In the meantime, dark clouds were gathering on the horizon of the Austrian monarchy. Rebellion after rebellion broke out on the southern frontier of its vast dominions, and Peter, now of age, was enlisted as a soldier, and sent away to the centre of the insurgent provinces. He had to march with his regiment in the darkness of the night without even being able to see Christine to utter a few parting words. He was heart-broken, though what he wanted to tell her was not known even to himself. All he knew was that he loved her dearly, and that his tortured, love-sick heart was writhing and bleeding at the thought that months and months would pass before he could again set eyes on her slender, graceful figure, and lovely smiling face.

The ensuing scenes of war and bloodshed sickened him; but Christine's hallowed picture, always with him, gave him strength to withstand all horrors. She appeared as the radiant star of his life, and he was guided in his loneliness by the single hope of seeing her again. Perhaps the ignorant simple lad covered his face and wept—wept tears of despair and joy in anticipating that inexpressible happiness which the future might hold in store.

V.

To the music-loving public of Vienna, first nights and debuts of promising students are great events, especially when the aspirants for musical honors come from the home conservatory, and more especially when a certain student of the conservatory is heralded as a singer with a phenomenal voice, which she will display in the famous role of Lucia di Lammermoor.

So it was that long before the doors of the imposing opera house were opened, eager crowds excitedly discussing the appearance of the new singer, stood at the entrance impatiently awaiting the hour. And before the portals had been thrown open half an hour, the great house was filled to suffocation.

Many of the Austrian nobility sat in their private boxes, and those persons belonging to the aristocracy occupied seats in the parterre and, in fact, every available place. The people, dangerously crowding the galleries, looked in open-eyed wonder at the stage where Christine, in the costume of Lucia stood trembling with shy timidity. A vague terror overshadowed her lovely features. She was endeavoring heroically to enter into her role, but the sight of so many people, whom for the first time she saw assembled, and the countless number of eager eyes riveted on her, made her dizzy. She lost her courage, and stood there helpless and frightened with downcast eyes, unable to commence, in spite of the fact that the nervous stage manager in the wings had already twice given her the cue.

The director of the conservatory stood in the wings at the opposite side of the stage, and nodded encouragingly to her. But as she seemed not to see him, he became livid, and wrathfully commenced to revile himself for having yielded to the temptation of bestowing this difficult role on Duke Hohenlohe's protege, who evidently was not sufficiently trained in self-control to appear as an independent star.

Just at the decisive moment, however, Duke Hohenlohe entered the proscenium box and smiled kindly at her. Christine's fingers closed spasmodically over each other. She perceived at last what was at stake.

With eyes full of tears, she controlled herself by a superb effort, and looked up at him as if saying: "You may trust me. I shall be equal to the situation," and then she began to sing, at first timidly and tremulously, but soon carried away by the grandeur of this passionate role, she surpassed herself; her high notes echoed through every part of the vast opera house with such dazzling magnificence, that an uproarious "Bravo," rang vociferously forth from thousands of voices, and thousands of hands applauded wildly.

And when she had rendered the great bravura aria in the second act, with rare perfection, a continuous storm of applause greeted her. Duke Hohenlohe smiled with gratification. He was indeed proud of his little protege, whom he had discovered in the blinding snow storm.

The director of the Conservatory, still standing in the wings, could not believe his eyes and ears. Christine was not only a great singer, but she had proved herself a great actress. The manner in which she had portrayed the mad Lucia was an immense surprise. Flowers and bouquets of all sizes and colors flew from all directions upon the young debutante. Curtseying timidly, her lovely face flushed and happy beyond description, she looked at the corner in the second gallery where Mrs. Miller sat praying with folded hands, as if in a trance.

"Mother—dear Mother," she murmured to herself, with profound humility, and disappeared.

The Duke Hohenlohe had just entered the imperial box where sat the Emperor. With a reverential bow, and a look of great satisfaction on his noble face, he said smilingly:

"Your Majesty, it was I who discovered the new star."

"Indeed? Tell me how," responded his Majesty, greatly interested.

"I happened to listen to her singing on Christmas Eve. She stood in my courtyard with an old broken violin and shivered with cold; and when she sang the Lorelei, the snow circled around her wretched little form. It was a pity."

"Duke, you have aroused my curiosity. Can I—?"

"See her? Oh, your Majesty—the great honor—she will be overwhelmed," the Duke replied, bowing deeply as he withdrew from the imperial box.

An instant later, Christine, greatly confused and flattered by the request of the Emperor, stood in his presence and received his hearty congratulations. As if in a dream she glanced at the second gallery where her mother still sat, and wept tears of joy. The Emperor cordially extended his royal hand, which she was permitted to kiss before retiring. The following day the success of the new star as Lucia was heralded over the city. The leading journals contained long articles about her magnificent rendering of the difficult role, and the beauty of her voice, at the same time, complimenting the committee of directors of the Imperial Opera House for this opportunity given to native talent, thus making an exception to the general rule that prophets are not recognized in their own country.

VI.

"Your first appearance was a triumph that will live in the memory of Vienna, my dear Christine. In fact, your magnificent rendering of a role which only such singers as Patti, Sembrich and Melba have attempted, has exceeded all expectations. Candidly, I had commenced to blame myself for having yielded to the wishes of Duke Hohenlohe," said the director of the Conservatory with a radiant smile, as he entered Christine's simple four-room apartment, a day later. "And I am most glad to have been commissioned by the Board of Directors to offer you a three years' contract with a suitable salary—but, my dear girl, what is the matter?"

Christine stood before him pale as a ghost. A slight tremor shook her slender frame, her eyes were downcast and red with weeping. She stammered a few words which the director could not understand.

He scrutinized her face sharply, being wholly puzzled, as he endeavored to fathom the true cause of this state of mind.

"Pardon me, my dear girl, if I express my surprise. I hope you are not dissatisfied with your debut. Why, you ought to be singing rhapsodies—be filled with ambition and enthusiasm—after being received by his Majesty and complimented upon your remarkable success."

Without replying, her lips quivering and dumb, Christine slowly and solemnly opened the door of the adjacent room. A mysterious, oppressive something seemed to fill the room like the shadow of death.

In the centre was a catafalque, at the end of which stood two lighted candles, sputtering lightly like the last feeble shrieks of a departing soul. Near the catafalque, on a small pedestal, rested the picture of poor Peter, embedded in a mass of roses.

The autumn sun, shining through the lilac and myrtle boughs that rustled close to the window, glinted over the pure, pale face of the singer. Mournfully, her tearful eyes sought the object of her deep devotion. On a black velvet cushion near Peter's picture, stood a pair of old shoes surrounded by jasmine and white camelias. A ray of sunshine stealing through the myrtle leaves made golden ripples on the shoes.

Christine pressed her hand to her heart, as if beholding that scene in the tavern of her childhood days. "Not yesterday," she said to the director in a trembling voice—"not yesterday, but five years ago I made my debut as a singer, when I earned these shoes in recognition of my singing—from him—" She pointed to Peter's picture, almost overcome by emotion.

"I sympathize most keenly with you, but my dear girl, what are they?"

"They are my only mementoes of my dear friend Peter, who lost his life in the service of the Empire—the first victim of the terrible rebellion at the Southern frontier." She stopped, unable to continue, while her heart contracted painfully, and big tears of sympathy and love for the shoemaker's apprentice trickled down her blanched face.

Christine is now one of the greatest opera stars on the horizon, and her sisters are following in her footsteps. But every year when the sad day of poor Peter's death comes, Christine, clothed all in black, goes out to the cemetery with flowers in hand, and sits for hours under the pure white marble obelisk where, in gilded letters, these words are traced:

ERECTED IN HONOR OF PETER STARK,
By his devoted, sorrowing friend,
CHRISTINE.