when he answered, with a
grave directness, which had nothing but the highest compliment in
it--that of crediting me with right motives:

"_Mein Fraeulein_, how can I tell? It is only that I knew some one,
rather older than you, and very beautiful, who had such a pursuit. Her
name was Corona Heidelberger, and her story was a sad one."

"Tell it me," I besought.

"Well, no, I think not. But--sometimes I have a little gift of
foresight, and that tells me that you will not become what you at
present think. You will be much happier and more fortunate."

"I wonder if it would be nice to be a great operatic singer," I
speculated.

"_O, behuete!_ don't think of it!" he exclaimed, starting up and moving
restlessly. "You do not know--you an opera singer--"

He was interrupted. There suddenly filled the air a sound of deep,
heavenly melody, which swept solemnly adown the aisles, and filled with
its melodious thunder every corner of the great building. I listened
with my face upraised, my lips parted. It was the organ, and presently,
after a wonderful melody, which set my heart beating--a melody full of
the most witchingly sweet high notes, and a breadth and grandeur of low
ones such as only two composers have ever attained to, a voice--a single
woman's voice--was upraised. She was invisible, and she sung till the
very sunshine seemed turned to melody, and all the world was music--the
greatest, most glorious of earthly things.

"Blute nur, liebes Herz!
Ach, ein Kind das du erzogen,
Das an deiner Brust gesogen,
Drohet den Pfleger zu ermorden
Denn es ist zur Schlange worden."

"What is it?" I asked below my breath, as it ceased.

He had shaded his face with his hand, but turned to me as I spoke, a
certain half-suppressed enthusiasm in his eyes.

"Be thankful for your first introduction to German music," said he, "and
that it was grand old Johann Sebastian Bach whom you heard. That is one
of the soprano solos in the _Passions-musik_--that is music."

There was more music. A tenor voice was singing a recitative now, and
that exquisite accompaniment, with a sort of joyful solemnity, still
continued. Every now and then, shrill, high, and clear, penetrated a
chorus of boys' voices. I, outer barbarian that I was, barely knew the
name of Bach and his "Matthaus Passion," so in the pauses my companion
told me by snatches what it was about. There was not much of it. After a
few solos and recitatives, the