He knew it, and clasped his hands for joy. And oh, how
she sang it! It was so simple, so mournful. Many a bright eye dimmed
with tears, and naught could be heard but the touching words of that
little song.
Pierre walked home as if moving on air. What cared he for money now?
The greatest singer in all Europe had sung his little song, and
thousands had wept at his grief.
The next day he was frightened at a visit from Madame Malibran. She
laid her hands on his yellow curls, and talking to the sick woman said:
"Your little boy, madame, has brought you a fortune. I was offered
this morning, by the best publisher in London, 300 pounds for his
little song, and after he has realized a certain amount from the sale,
little Pierre, here, is to share the profits. Madame, thank God that
your son has a gift from heaven."
The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept together. As to
Pierre, always mindful of Him who watches over the tired and tempted,
he knelt down by his mother's bedside and offered a simple but eloquent
prayer, asking God's blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to
notice their affliction.
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