red; his eyes were raised to
heaven, and his face glowed with a rapt delight, as he improvised his
beautiful song. Not a sound was heard; it seemed as if all were turned
to stone, so intense was the silence. His heart seemed to grow lighter
of its burden, and the song burst into a wild, sweet carol, that rang
rich and clear through the hall; and then it changed and grew so soft it
could hardly be heard, and at last it died away.

For a moment the vast audience seemed spell-bound; then, all rising with
one uncontrollable impulse, and breaking into a tempest of applause
that rocked the building to its very foundations, they rained down
bouquets on his head.

But the boy stood with a far-off look in his large and beautiful eyes,
and then, giving a little sigh, fell heavily to the floor.

When he returned to consciousness, he heard a voice say, "Poor child!"
It seemed like Herr Bach's; and then he heard Carl say, in a sobbing
voice, "Franz! dear Franz!" Why did they pity him, he wondered; and then
it all came back to him--the prize, the violin, and Raoul.

"Where is the violin?" he murmured.

"It will be here in a moment," some one said.

Then he saw the pale, remorseful face of Raoul, who said: "Dear little
Franz, forgive me!"

The boy raised his hand and pointed to heaven, and said, softly: "Dear
Raoul, I forgive you!"--and then all the pain and bitterness in his
heart against Raoul died out.

The sweet face of the Empress, made lovely by its look of tender pity,
bent over him, and she kissed him and murmured, "Poor little one!" Then
she placed the beautiful violin in his arms, and the thalers in his
hands.

And so, with the famed violin and bright thalers clasped close on his
breast, the life-light died out of his eyes, and little Franz fell
asleep.

SWEET AFTON

ROBERT BURNS

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise,
My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills!
Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills,
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot i