have happy times
together yet. Only think of the beautiful tunes I'll play on you, and
how the children will clap their hands when they hear your bells! No,
don't be in the least afraid; I'll play on you as I never have before
since once,"--here the little lip quivered in spite of itself,--"only
try and play real pretty--do, so I shan't ever be lonesome with thinking
of the lovely gardens at home! Ah, Tambourine! Tambourine! you and I are
all alone!" Just then, a sweet tone came from the bells of the
tambourine, and comforted Cybele's heart.

She wandered up the streets, and stopped to look in upon the windows of
the toy-shops; but the toy-carts, and those wonderful witches, who would
always stand on their heads, had no charm for her longer. Her heart was
saddened, and when she tried to strike out gay tunes, they would not
come--only sad ones, and sad words from her lips. The children pitied
her grave looks, and, when they could not persuade her to dance for
them, they would leave her in silence.

When she looked about her and saw all the children, how they were never
alone, that their eye's danced, and their voices were mirthful, she
would ask herself why she, too, was not happy. Then courage would come
to her, and she would strike a gay air, and call the children to her
side; but, when she had finished, she was glad to creep away by
herself, and lean her head upon her tambourine to weep. Then, when the
voice of the angel sounded in her heart, she would raise her head to
reply, meekly, "No, I'm not afraid."

It chanced, one day, that she wandered into the obscure corner of a
church. It was evening service, and at first she was only glad to get
away from the cold, biting air; but she had not been there long before a
strange feeling of gladness rose up in her heart. The organ awoke from
its stillness, and the tones gladdened her as the tambourine, dear as it
was, had never done. The hazy light poured in through the windows, and
lit up the faces of the scattered worshippers with seraphic beauty, and
it gave golden edges to the spotless robe of the priest in the chancel,
played upon his white, flowing hair, and shone upon his uplifted
countenance. The priest spoke out blessed words of the Father in heaven,
how he calls the tired and weary to come and be folded up in his arms;
how he even says, "Suffer little children to come unto mo, and forbid
them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." These words fell into
the