"We wanted to be of service in your dilemma," said Joseph. "Shall Ellen sing before you, Master Handel?"
Handel seated himself: "I am curious to see how your teaching has succeeded," he said. "Come, let her begin."
Joseph went to the piano, and Ellen stood beside him.
The part she took was that of the first soprano, the one taken from Signora Lucia. Handel started as the young girl's voice rose, clear, silvery, floating—a voice of the purest quality! How he listened when he heard the most splendid portion of his forthcoming work—the glorious air, "I know that my Redeemer liveth"—and how Ellen sang it may be conjectured when, after she had ceased, the composer sat motionless, a happy smile on his lips, his eyes full of tears. At length he drew a deep breath, arose, kissed the maiden's forehead, kissed her eyes, in which also bright drops were glancing, and said with profound feeling: "Ellen, my good—good child—you will sing this part to-morrow at the representation?"
"Master Handel! Father Handel cried the maiden, and threw herself, sobbing, on his neck. Joseph rattled off a jovial air to cover his emotion.
"Amen!" resounded through the arches of the church, and died away in whispered melody in its remotest aisles. "Amen!" responded Handel, while he slowly let fall the staff with which he had kept time. His immortal masterpiece had produced an immense impression: his fame was established for all time.
When the great composer descended the church steps, he was informed that his majesty had sent for him, and that a carriage was waiting, by the royal command, to convey him to Carlton House.
George the Second received the artist with a gracious welcome, and he read his triumph in the faces of the court nobles.
"You have made us a noble present in your Messiah, Master Handel," said the monarch. "It is a brave piece of work!"