“He may tell you that himself, Master Händel,” answered the damsel pettishly, and blushing while she turned away her face. But Joseph replied quickly and earnestly: “Think not ill of me and the good Ellen, my dear master; for what we do here, I am ready to answer before you.”
“Open your mouth, then, and speak,” said Händel.
Joseph went on: “For what I am, and what I can do, I thank you, my dear master. You befriended me when I came hither a stranger, without means of earning a support. To make me a good singer, you spent many an hour, in which you could have done something great.”
“Ho! ho! the fool!” cried Händel; “and do you think to make a good singer was not doing something great—eh?”
“You see, master, it has often grieved me to see you forced to vex yourself beyond reason with indifferent singers, because their education is far behind your works.”
“That is a pity, indeed,” sighed Händel.
“And I have tried,” continued Joseph, “to instruct a singer for you: I think I have so far succeeded, that she may venture before you. There she is!” and he pointed to Ellen.
Händel opened his eyes wide, looked astonished on the damsel, and asked, incredulously, “Ellen! what, Ellen there?”
“Yes, I!” cried Ellen, coming to him, and looking innocently in his face with her clear hazel eyes. “I, myself,” she repeated, smiling; “and now you know, Master Händel, what Joseph and I were about together.”
“Shall she sing before you, Master Händel?” asked Joseph.