dly keep still; even Franz, whose cheeks glowed
with a brilliant hectic flush, and whose eyes were strangely bright. The
hall was crowded. The imperial family was there, together with the whole
court.

The concert began with an overture from the orchestra. Then came
Fraulein, the prima donna of the Imperial Opera, and then the boys. Carl
came first, and played a brilliant, sparkling little piece, and was
loudly applauded; next Gottfried and Johann, and then Raoul. When he
stepped out upon the platform, his handsome face and fine form seemed to
make an impression on the audience, for they remained perfectly silent.
Raoul commenced. At first Franz paid no attention to him, then suddenly
he started. The melody flowed on; louder and louder, clearer and clearer
it rose. Franz stood motionless, listening in strained, fixed attention,
until at last, overcome with grief and astonishment, he sank upon the
floor and cried out piteously, with tears streaming down his face:

"Oh, Raoul! Raoul! how could you, could you do it--my own little piece
that I loved so much? Oh, mother! mother!"--and, burying his head in
his arms, he sobbed in an agony of grief.

He heard the burst of applause that greeted his piece--not Raoul's; he
heard it all, but moved not until he heard Carl say:

"Come, Franz! it's time to go. They are all waiting for you; but I am
afraid that Raoul has won the prize."

What should he do, he wondered? And then he thought perhaps the kind
Father in heaven would help him. So, breathing a little prayer in his
heart, he walked calmly forth upon the platform.

At first, he trembled so that he could hardly begin; then a sudden
inspiration seemed to come to him--a quick light swept across his face.
He raised the violin to his shoulder and began.

The audience at first paid no attention; but presently all became quiet,
and they leaned forward in breathless attention. What a wonderful song
it was!--for it was a song. The violin seemed almost to speak, and so
softly and sweetly and with such exquisite pathos were the notes drawn
forth that the eyes of many were filled with tears. For it was pouring
out all little Franz's griefs and sorrows; it was telling how the little
heart was almost broken by the treachery of the friend; it was telling
how hard he had worked to win, for the dear mother's sake; and it was
telling, and the notes grew sweeter as it told, how the good God had not
forsaken him. The boy seemed almost inspi