"So few seem thinking just of His listening," he said doubtfully. "There are the choir-master and the Dean and Chapter, and the other choristers, and the Cistercians, and the mothers of the other choristers, who wish them to sing best."
She took his hand. "So there were in that old Jerusalem," she said. "The Pharisees, who wanted to stop the children's singing; and even the dear disciples, who often thought they might be troublesome to the Master. But the little ones sang for Him; and He knew, and was pleased. And that is all we have to think of now."
He kissed her, and went away with a lightened brow.
Many of the neighbours came in that afternoon to congratulate Magdalis on her boy—his face, his voice, his gentle ways.
"And then he sings with such feeling," said one. "One sees it is in his heart."
But in the evening Gottlieb came home very sad and desponding. For some time he said nothing, and then, with a brave effort to restrain his tears, he murmured,—
"Oh, mother! I am afraid it will soon be over. I heard one of the priests say he thought they had a new chorister at the Cistercians whose voice is as good as mine. So that the archduchess may not like our choir best, after all."
The mother said nothing for a moment, and then she said,—
"Whose praise and love will the boy at the Cistercian convent sing, Gottlieb, if he has such a lovely voice?"
"God's!—the dear Heavenly Father and the Saviour!" he said reverently.