III.
The next day Gottlieb began his training among the other choristers.
It was not easy.
The choir-master showed his appreciation of his rare treasure by straining every nerve to make it as perfect as possible; and therefore he found more fault with Gottlieb than with any one else.
The other boys might, he could not but observe, sing carelessly enough, if the general harmony were but good; but every note of his seemed as if it were a solo which the master's ear never missed, and not the slightest mistake was allowed to pass.
The other choristers understood very well what this meant, and some of them were not a little jealous of the new favourite, as they called him. But to little Gottlieb it seemed hard and strange. He was always straining to do his very best, and yet he never seemed to satisfy. The better he did, the better the master wanted him to do, until he grew almost hopeless.
He would not, for the world, complain to his mother; but on the third evening she observed that he looked very sad and weary, and seemed scarcely to have spirits to play with Lenichen.
She knew it is of little use to ask little children what ails them, because so often their trouble is that they do not know. Some little delicate string within is jarred, and they know nothing of it, and think the whole world is out of tune. So she quietly put Lenichen to bed, and after the boy had said his prayers as usual at her knee, she laid her hand on his head, and caressingly stroked his fair curls, and then she lifted up his face to hers and kissed the little troubled brow and quivering lips.
"Dear little golden mouth!" she said, fondly, "that earns bread, and sleep, for the little sister and for me! I heard the sweet notes to-day, and I thanked God. And I felt as if the dear father was hearing them too, even through the songs in heaven."
The child's heart was opened, the quivering lips broke into a sob, and the face was hidden on her knee.