The stranger cast a quick, cautious glance about the premises, showing that his errand was no friendly one, then threw back his head and gazed greedily at the luscious pears that grew above him. As he stood thus, with the morning light falling brightly across his visage, Tommy saw that his features were strongly marked and prominent, his face seamed by deep and vicious lines.

The boy, accustomed to study the form and appearance of things, quickly comprehended the stranger's long nose, low brow, pointed chin, and hollow cheeks.

The man looked furtively about for the second time and sprang to the top of the wall. Quite unconscious that a spectator was eagerly watching from the covered structure near by, the intruder ascended boldly into the pear-tree and proceeded to fill his pockets and hat with the juicy fruit.

Never a sound came from the summer-house, but before the rogue had completed his stolen harvest, Tommy's cunning pencil had drawn the robber's portrait, with the narrowed eyes, leering lips, unkempt hair, and rakish hat, exactly as they had impressed him at the moment when the vagabond stood gazing aloft at the fruit overhead. Tommy finished the sketch with a few hasty strokes, then closed his book and burst suddenly from the summer-house, shouting "Wow, wow!" at the top of his voice.

Down leaped the man to the earth, and scaling the wall at a bound, he fled, dropping many of the pears as he ran.

Tommy's unearthly shrieks had roused the household, and he hurriedly explained to his mother the cause of her daily vanishing pears, displaying his sketch as proof of his argument.

An hour later Mr. Gainsborough opened Tommy's book before the squire, pointed to the drawing upon the last page, and related the story of the boy's early morning experience.

The squire immediately recognized the picture as of a ne'er-do-weel who had been loitering about Sudbury for some time, and who had more than once been convicted of petty thieving.

"I'll send for him," declared the magistrate; and that very afternoon the offender was brought in.

Mr. Gainsborough accused him of invading his orchard and attempting to carry away his fruit; but the culprit stoutly denied all knowledge of the episode.

Quietly the squire opened Tommy's book, and held it before the defendant's astonished gaze.

He uttered a baffled whine, then, with a laugh that was like a snarl, he admitted his guilt of the morning, and also confessed to having robbed the pear-tree upon three previous occasions.

"My man," announced the squire sternly, "I shall let you go free this time upon your promise of good behavior, but if you ever repeat the offence I'll give you a sentence of confinement on bread and water. There is plenty of honest employment to be had in Sudbury, and I advise you to go to work and live as a decent citizen."

The man shambled out, and from that day forth was seen no more about the village.

Mr. Gainsborough, concluding from the day's developments that he could justly afford to encourage this play-work of Tommy's, which was beginning to take on a shade of importance, bought a large new sketch-book and presented it to the boy.

Tommy turned five somersaults to express the warmth of his gratitude; but before despatching the old book to its future home on the closet shelf, he opened it and, with his bravest flourishes, wrote beneath the sketch on the final page,—

"Tom Pear-tree's Portrait."

When years had gone by and Thomas Gainsborough had arrived at manhood, he astonished all England by his remarkable paintings. His pictures of woods and lanes, fields and shining water, captivated the country folk by presenting so perfectly the scenes before their doors; and the city dwellers were awakened by his colors to the charms of the wide, sweet country they had forgotten.

These landscape studies set Thomas Gainsborough high in the world of art, but when at length he turned his cunning brush to the task of painting portraits, his fame was heralded from city to province. He began by making likenesses of his wife and daughters, and when these were exhibited at the Royal Academy, people exclaimed at the skill and dignity of the work. Even King George III., who chanced to visit the gallery on one of these occasions, paused before Gainsborough's canvas, and clasped his hands in admiration.

"Summon this painter to the palace," commanded he, "and let him paint his sovereign and his queen."

This order from the king made Gainsborough's portraits the fashion at court, and straightway all the ladies of rank and beauty came to him, entreating him to paint their pictures.

His fortune and reputation, by these well-earned favors, rose far beyond anything he had expected, and if ever a man was truly happy in his life and work, that man was Thomas Gainsborough.

He was so generous, so good-humored, so lovable in his old-time frankness, that people who sought his acquaintance because he was a famous artist quickly forgot his amazing skill in the pleasure of his ever-boyish company.

It was supposed that he had reached the climax of his art when he exhibited a picture of the Duchess of Devonshire, for this set Great Britain agog with praise and wonder; but Thomas Gainsborough was destined to climb yet one step higher in the ladder of public esteem, and the work that crowned his success and brought the world to his feet was a childish portrait entitled "Blue Boy." This was hung on the wall of the Royal Academy, and when the spectators came surging through the gallery, chattering amiably of this canvas and that, they halted speechless before the boy with the thoughtful eyes, the fresh brown skin, and the pale-blue dress. The lad was so young, so sweet, so lifelike in his quiet pose, that not a word was uttered by the critics standing by. One by one they slipped away, aware that Thomas Gainsborough had not attained the goal of his greatness by pictures of kings, queens, court beauties, and mighty soldiers, but by the youthful, innocent portrait entitled simply "Blue Boy."

GEORG'S CHAMPION [HÄNDEL]

"No, no, Hans, you are too loud, and Frieda goes too fast! Just listen to Otto's trumpet and watch my cane, all of you, and then you'll be right."

The tone was an emphatic one, and the speaker pounded sharply on the floor with his walking stick.

He was a small boy, whose flaxen hair hung straight and thick on either side of his face. He was panting with excitement, his eyes were sparkling, his lips were set.

Before him, on the floor, sat six boys and girls in a semi-circle, attending earnestly to his commands. One boy possessed a toy horn; two others, mouth organs; a fourth, a chubby girl, had dropped a tin fife in sheer fright; and the fifth and sixth clung to drum and dinner-bell respectively.

"This time," went on the conductor sternly, "I want you to begin when I bring my cane down. Now watch! One, two, three, four,—one!"

As the big baton descended with the leader's vehement "one," a deafening uproar burst from the obedient orchestra.

"Keep on, keep on! You're going it now! Slower, Frieda! One, two, three, four!"

The director swung his cane vigorously, shouting his orders above the strains of the lusty symphony. A few measures were bravely rendered, when the conductor suddenly threw down his stick with a look of extreme exasperation.

"Peter," he said quietly, in the tone of a teacher sorely tried but patient, "please don't jingle the bell. Take the clapper in your hand, and tap it when I say 'one' and 'three.' Like this!" and seizing the bell, he illustrated his meaning, compelling the fat offender to perform the feat to his satisfaction before going on with the rehearsal. When the bell-ringer had been sufficiently drilled, the director once again took up his baton and ordered a fresh beginning.

They were playing in good earnest, for this imperious conductor desired something far above the discordant blasts that are usually obtained from musical toys. Weeks before he had assigned to each playmate a certain instrument, teaching him in private to draw real melody from it; and to-day he had assembled the six performers in his bedroom, introducing them to the delight of joining together in a familiar musical theme.

To be sure, the toys were shrill and piping, the players often faulty and careless, but after an hour's persistent and perspiring labor on the part of all concerned, the Duke's Military March rang through the house in creditable time and tune.

While the music continued with true martial spirit, the door opened softly, and a plump, fair girl of sixteen peeped into the room. Perceiving the occupation of the children, she smiled brightly and slipped away. A moment later another form appeared upon the threshold, that of an elderly, dignified man. His hair was white, his eyes were protected by huge gold spectacles, his shoulders were slightly bent; but a close observer would have readily detected a resemblance between the handsome old gentleman and the leader of the orchestra. One bore the markings of age, the other the dimples of childhood; but they plainly displayed a kindred will, energy, and intelligence, although one was seventy and the other but seven.

Mr. Händel was the town surgeon of Halle, appointed by the Duke of Sächse, and the flaxen-haired boy was the idolized child of his declining years.

At first sight of the juvenile orchestra the visitor smiled as indulgently as had the girl before him, entering the chamber unobserved, and seating himself in a distant corner where he could watch the highly interesting performance. But he turned quickly grave when his eye fell upon the small director, who was bending anxiously forward, his whole being absorbed in the sounds that issued from the toys at signal of his cane. The flush that burned the leader's cheek, the intensity of his glance, and the strained alertness of his lithe young body, seemed a forbidding vision to the old gentleman, for his face clouded and he shook his head in increasing disapproval.

Presently the concert ended, the children scrambled noisily to their feet, and the conductor leaned upon his cane, regarding them with the serene composure of a man who has wrought successfully and is modestly proud of the fact.

"We must go home, Georg," said Peter, exchanging his bell for his cap.

"I'm going to run, 'cause I'm so dretful hungry," announced Frieda, disappearing in quest of curds and seed cakes.

"You may all go now," consented the director affably, "but," raising a commanding finger, "we will practise again at seven o'clock to-morrow morning, and whoever is one minute late won't be invited to my party in the afternoon."

"Oh, Georg," wailed Frieda, recalled from the corridor by this edict, "must I come at seven, whether I've had any breakfast or not?"

The leader bowed.

"Whether you have had any breakfast or not," he rejoined firmly.

The children trooped down the stairs, leaving their chief to gather up the toys and place them carefully upon the table.

He was about to leave the room when, for the first time, he discovered that he was not alone.

"Father!" he exclaimed, bounding gladly to the old man's side, and laying one hand affectionately upon his shoulder. "Did you hear us play? Didn't we do well? If only we had a fiddle we could make much better music. Oh, father, it is such fun—why—what's the matter, father? I sharpened your pens and aired your dressing-gown."

The boy's hilarious comments ceased as he became aware of his father's darkened expression, and he hastened to allay the doubts that he supposed to be the cause of this unlooked-for displeasure.

"I know, Georg, that you sharpened the pens, and I believe you when you tell me that you aired the dressing-gown, but I shall give you a new duty to-day. See that you perform it promptly!"

Georg listened in wonder, for never before had his father addressed him with such hardness of manner, and instinctively the boy drew a pace backward.

"A new—duty?" he stammered.

"I want you to take those musical toys and throw them into the pond, or give them to some one who never comes into this house."

Georg was dumfounded.

"Throw them away—my trumpet, my fife, my—"

Breathless with consternation the boy rushed to the table and gathered his treasures protectingly in his arms.

"These—I must—keep," he asserted chokingly, eying his father from the breastworks of drum and bell.

For answer Mr. Händel pointed to the door, and Georg, reading naught but doom in that significant gesture, dropped his toys with a crash and clasped his father's arm beseechingly.

"Father, don't make me throw them in the pond! Tell me why it is wrong for me to have them; please, father, tell me!"

The old gentleman's face expressed both resolution and kindness.

"Listen, Georg. When I gave you those toys at Christmas time, I expected you to amuse yourself with them as other children do, in turn with balls, kites, and sleds. But this you have failed to do, and every play-hour since that time you have given to these musical toys. Now, Georg, I mean to give you a thorough education, so that when you are a man you may become a jurist, capable of following a respectable career and earning a snug fortune. Ever since you were born I have planned and saved for this purpose, and I cannot have my arrangements upset by these silly mouth organs. Tut, tut!" as the boy endeavored to speak, "no words, my son, over this matter! If I allow you to keep these things and play with them, day in and day out, as you have been doing, you will grow into a musician, and then where will my jurist be? No, no, it is not to be thought of. When I came in to-day, you were so deep in the Duke's March that you did not know that I was near. No, boy, you cannot have them any longer. I would have taken them away before, had I realized that you were so set upon them."

"Please, father—" whispered Georg, quaking, but persistent.

"You must either throw them away or give them away to-day. You shall have an hour to decide which you wish to do, and at the end of it, I shall expect the matter to be settled for all time. Also, Georg, I wish you to see no more of four of those children who were here to-day. Frieda and Peter seemed dull enough, but the others were too musical by far to be fit companions for you. You may tell them that I forbid them the house from to-day."

At this stroke of fate, Georg threw himself at full length on the floor, sobbing tempestuously. His father departed without further parley, and the boy was left alone to battle with his disappointment.

As the hour drew to a close, he mastered his emotion as well as he was able, washed from his face the traces of weeping, and hurried out to call a meeting of his orchestra by the pond-side.

He would not confess to his mates that he was grieved with the message he had for them, but delivered it with an air of mannish bravado.

"I shan't have an orchestra any more, and I have brought you all of my instruments. I'll give you each the one you've been using, so you can play hereafter. You needn't come to-morrow to rehearse, for I can't lead any longer."

"No orchestra! You won't lead!" chorused the musicians blankly, as they received the cherished toys into their hands.

"Never again," affirmed Georg loftily, but he must needs set his teeth hard upon his lower lip, lest its trembling should betray his stinging regret.

"You see," he explained with the easy patronage of a captain who has led his troops to victory, but who is about to be promoted out of their midst, "it is not as though I were to be a musician when I grow up. It is all well enough for you fellows to play on these things every day, but I really ought not to waste my time with them, for," importantly, "when I am a man, I am going to be a jurist."

"A what?" demanded his hearers in one breath, much impressed by the high-sounding title.

"A jurist," Georg repeated, folding his arms, much gratified at the effect his announcement had produced.

"What does a—a jurist do?" inquired Frieda, feminine curiosity conquering her awe.

"Oh," replied Georg easily, "a jurist, Frieda, writes down in a book everything that people ought to do, and when they don't do just as he has written, he cuts off their heads."

"Ach!"

"Their heads?"

"You will learn to cut them off?"

Georg bowed.

"Now you understand why I must give up the orchestra. If you decide to keep on without me, perhaps, sometime—"

He was turning away with a kingly wave of the hand, his last sentence unfinished, when a question from Peter recalled him to the second and most distressing part of his mission.

"You'll have your party to-morrow afternoon? We needn't play on things, you know."

The blood mounted to Georg's forehead, and his fingers twitched uncomfortably; but he managed to speak so boldly that his listeners were quite unaware of his struggle.

"I am glad you mentioned the party, Peter, for I had nearly forgotten it. No, I won't have any party, and I must tell you—at least, father says—that—that Hans and Otto and Gretchen and Leopold must not come to my house any more. Of course," he added hastily, seeking to drown the gasps of his troopers, "it isn't that you're not good enough and nice enough for me to play with, but father says that you four are very musical, and you might make me musical too; but Frieda and Peter can come, for they are dull."

"I hate your old tunes and notes, anyway," protested Peter, much injured; but Frieda cut him short with the excited proposal,—

"Let's have your party for Peter and me and you, to-morrow!"

"Have your party! Have your party!" sneered Otto; and Hans informed Georg in biting tones that he wouldn't forget this when his birthday came next month.

Here Georg visibly weakened, for he remembered that Hans was expecting either a violin or a flute upon that occasion, and he nearly lost his studied indifference with the recollection. He was obliged to face about, to hide the sudden teardrops that glistened on his cheeks; and, marching proudly toward his father's pasture, with head high in air, and back steadily kept toward his forsaken band, he called out,—

"I'm not mad at you, but you can be mad at me if you like. I won't have a party to-morrow for Frieda and Peter, 'cause I like Hans and Otto better than I do them, 'cause they know how to keep time when I beat."

He had reached the pasture with the last word of parting, and flinging himself over the bars, he fled across the green as though twenty scouts of the enemy were close upon his heels. The mask that he had worn to conceal his heartburning had fallen, and he was crying bitterly as he ran.

Old Kappelstahr, Georg's special pet since the days when she was a sportive calf, stood mildly chewing her cud near the inner fence. As her master dashed among the kine in evident agitation, the heifer turned to look after him, apparently surprised that he had passed her by without a word of greeting.

Georg, glancing backward, happened to catch that look of gentle interest. He halted irresolutely, then, rushing to her side and throwing his arms about her neck, the dejected jurist sobbed out his woe upon her warm brown shoulder.

During the succeeding days and weeks, Georg felt as lonely as a shipwrecked mariner cast upon a deserted island of the sea. Instinctively, when lessons were done, he reached out for amusement to the musical toys that were his no longer. Sometimes he heard sounds arising from the pond-side, where his forbidden orchestra rehearsed under Otto's direction. That he might neither make music nor mingle with those who did, filled him with blank dismay; and hour by hour he wandered about the house and garden, unable to attach himself to other interests or games. His father required him to make an industrious use of his school hours, even adding to the regular course certain studies that he deemed useful to one preparing for a serious profession.

The old gentleman was sorry indeed when he saw how the absence of the musical toys and companions affected Georg, and he even sought to modify the discipline by presenting to the boy a complete set of carpenter's tools.

Georg thanked him for the gift, but what was the old gentleman's surprise, a week later, upon seeing the chest in his son's room, still unopened, with every tool in place, and across the wooden lid a series of black and white keys painted, in imitation of a harpsichord.

Mr. Händel frowned, but made no reference to the matter before Georg.

Mrs. Händel believed that her husband was right at all times, and would not have reversed his decision regarding the musical affair, if she could; but her sister Anna, the plump fair girl who had peeped in upon the last rehearsal of the orchestra in Georg's room, sympathized warmly with the boy, and sought to console him in every way possible.

Anna was barely sixteen, herself scarcely more than a child, blue-eyed, yellow-haired, and a member of the Händel household. Her sweet temper and merry heart had long before won Georg's devotion, and in his present trial no one was admitted to his confidence but this youthful aunt.

Never a word of disrespect or rebellion did Anna utter against Mr. Händel, for she believed implicitly in a child's obedience to his parents; but, being of a musical temperament herself, she entered into the boy's trouble as though she, too, were under the ban. In a certain sense she was, there being no musical instrument in the house, and often she felt stirred by the same impulse that wrought so constantly upon her nephew.

"Never mind, Georg," she would say, "let Hans and Frieda have the mouth organ and the drum. Just you attend to your school, and when your father sees that you mean to study hard and carry out his wishes, he will give them back to you."

But weeks dragged wearily by, and, despite Georg's diligence at school, Mr. Händel did not relent. Frieda and Peter came occasionally, but they had never been Georg's chosen comrades, and he joined their games mechanically, plainly relieved when they took their departure. He longed unceasingly for Otto, who was clever with the trumpet, and for Hans, who was now the possessor of a violin.

He became restless and dissatisfied, and his mother despaired of a child who went about with such a sober face.

He never gave voice to the discontent that surged in his breast, for parental authority was strict in the Händel household, and he would have been sharply punished for outspoken protest. But he did not recover from his disappointment, as his father had so reasonably expected; a slight paleness crept over his plump cheeks, his lively spirit was tinged with melancholy, and from his compressed lips was seldom heard his former ringing laugh.

Every one in the house noticed the change, but all except Anna thought the mood would presently pass away if properly ignored, and no mention was made in his hearing of the subject that lay nearest his heart. The girl, however, realized that Georg was seriously unhappy, and right heartily did she try to divert him from his consuming desire.

One November afternoon, as Georg sat studying before the sitting-room fire with his mother, who had fallen asleep over her knitting, his attention was attracted by a pebble being thrown against the window. Raising his eyes, he beheld his aunt beckoning to him from the garden. Down went the book and out went the boy.

"What is it, Aunt Anna?"

For answer, the girl caught him about the neck and whirled him madly up and down the gravelled path.

"It's a secret, Georg, the best and biggest secret in the whole world. Nobody is to know it but you and me, and it is so lovely that I can't keep from spinning like a top!"

"Wait! Stop! Let loose!" and the boy broke from her clasp, half-strangled by the joyful energy of her arm. "What is the secret? Hurry and tell!"

The girl stood smiling and speechless, unable to find words to frame her tidings. Then glancing about to assure herself that no one was near, she bent quickly and whispered,—

"You remember, Georg, that poor Granny Wegler died last week. Well, her daughter, Mrs. Friesland, who came from Munich to take care of her, called here to-day to tell me—what do you suppose?"

"I don't know."

"She said that she had found a note written by Granny, saying that when she died, she wanted to leave her clavichord to me. Just think of it, Georg, I am to have that dear, beautiful little clavichord that stood in Granny's parlor, and you and I can play on it whenever we please!"

Georg's face went from red to white and back to red again with this stupendous news. Afraid that a shout would serve to recall him to house and book, he sought to express his delight by rolling over and over in the crackling brown grass and pulling up the dead blades by handfuls.

Suddenly, however, he ceased his tumbling about, and sat up, his hair filled with bits of leaves and grass.

"Ought I to play on it, Aunt Anna? Will father care?"

Georg's voice shook with apprehension, but the girl hastened to reassure him.

"When your father made you give away the toys, he never said a word about clavichords. It can't be wrong to play on it when you never have been forbidden."

Anna's idea of obedience was very strict, and in the present case she was wholly sincere, never doubting for an instant that they were about to proceed in the straight path of duty.

"Oh, no," murmured the boy, much relieved, "he didn't mention clavichords, I'm sure."

"Now this is to be a secret of yours and mine, and while the others are gone to the Kirmess to-morrow, I shall have the darling brought over and carried up to the garret."

"Ho, ho! Hurrah for our secret! Hurrah! hurrah!"

When, next day, Georg saw the clavichord borne to the shadowy chamber under the eaves and set up in all its thrilling reality against the warm brick chimney, he pressed both hands over his mouth in the fear that his cries of exultation might reach his father's ears in town.

When the carriers were gone, he approached the instrument timidly, and only after Anna had played several tunes, could he be induced to touch its yellowed keys. But when he had once overcome the awe that filled him at sight of his heart's desire, he clung to it as a thing of life, passing every hour thereafter that he could snatch from his school studies, in the company of this glorious toy. In the beginning, Anna taught him the few rudiments of musical art that lay within her ken, but before many weeks had passed, the pupil turned teacher, so far outstripping his aunt that he was able to give her many helpful suggestions.

That Georg speedily recovered his vaulting spirits, every one remarked; but none guessed the reason. The good surgeon supposed that the boy's regret for his lost playthings and companions was forgotten, and he smiled to see his son as noisy and mischief-loving as before the September episode.

The conspirators were for a time in terror of discovery, but the tones of the clavichord were so thin and muffled that their tinkling would never disturb a drowsy garret mouse, much less penetrate the oaken floors to the chambers under foot. No one but Georg's mother ever visited the attic region, and during this important season, she chanced to be afflicted with acute rheumatic pain that prevented her climbing the steep stair leading to the treasure-house.

The winter was a long one and cold, but Anna and Georg, in their high retreat, were as happy and comfortable as meadow-larks. Trunks, chests, old clothing, and discarded furniture abounded there; bunches of dried herbs were strung to the cross-beams, and cobwebs draped the outlying nooks; but the great chimney emitted a cosy warmth, and the clavichord provided unceasing entertainment.

As time went by, Anna's interest waned considerably, owing to the succeeding preparations of Christmas gifts, March birthday festivities, and spring finery; but when months had rolled away and summer suns were once more ripening the fruit and coloring the flowers, Georg was as intently absorbed in the clavichord as on the day of its first appearance.

One June morning he was starting for a day's visit with some cousins who lived on the most fashionable street in Halle. He was attired for the occasion in his best suit of shining black satin. A deep collar of Mechlin lace, a pair of gleaming silver shoe-buckles, and a silver cord wound around his broad black beaver filled him with satisfaction as he emerged from the house door.

At this juncture Mr. Händel drove into the gravelled plaza lying between stable and street, and Georg observed with surprise that the carriage was festooned with yellow streamers, that Mummer, the staid mare, was groomed until she shone, and tricked out in the yellow harness and tassels reserved for state occasions.

"Where are you going, father?" called Georg.

"To Weisenfels. The duke sent for me this morning. He wishes a report of the state of health in Halle."

"Oh, father, please take me with you! I've never seen the court, and I want to go so much!"

"Not this time, Georg. I have business to attend to, and I cannot look after you."

"You needn't look after me," insisted the lad, laying his hand upon the door of the slowly moving vehicle. "I'll be good and do everything you say, and Christian will take care of me. Please, father, take me!"

"No, no! Some other time I'll take you, but this time I shall be too busy. Get up, Mummer!"

With the touch of the whip, the ancient mare broke into a gentle dogtrot, the only gait more swift than a walk in which she ever indulged.

Georg saw the carriage roll through the gates and take the road toward Weisenfels.

To go to the duke's court was something that he had long desired, and this seemed a wholly favorable time for the undertaking. Had his father's denial been decisive, Georg would have accepted it with the best grace he could muster, and gone on about his visit; but he had seen that the surgeon was merely preoccupied, refusing the petition absently in order that his reflections should not be disturbed, rather than that he cared to forbid the journey.

"If he only knew how much I wanted to go, he would have said 'yes,'" thought Georg. "Father nearly always lets me do things when I ask him. He really didn't hear what I said,—didn't hear inside him, I mean,—or he would have taken me. I'll go! I'll go anyway, and when I get there father will be sure to let me stay."

Fired with this determination, Georg set off, running nimbly behind the carriage, taking pains all the while to keep out of the surgeon's sight.

Although Mummer was not very fleet as horses go, she jogged steadily along, and the boy, following close behind the carriage, began to wonder why she never stopped to catch her breath and cool herself. Up and down hill, over bridges, through strips of forest, went horse, carriage, and boy; and, as the sun blazed down, and the road grew dusty to choking, the last one of the procession became so hot and breathless that he feared he must stop or die.

At twelve o'clock the carriage drew up before a roadside inn; and when the hostler came to take charge of Mummer, Mr. Händel opened the door and stepped out upon the flower-bordered driveway.

The flash of a silver hat-cord seemed to twinkle before his eyes, and seized with a sharp suspicion, the old gentleman strode quickly round to the back of the carriage only to see a pair of small black legs disappearing under the vehicle.

"Georg!" he ejaculated. "Come out, instantly! What are you doing here?"

A dusty, sheepish boy crawled slowly into sight, murmuring confusedly as he rose,—

"I knew you'd let me go if you thought about it, so I came—"

Dizzy from heat and fatigue, Georg clutched the wheel to keep himself from falling; and the surgeon took him anxiously by the shoulder.

"You foolish boy! What possessed you to undertake such a tramp! I didn't care particularly if you came. Here, let's go into the inn and get dinner! You will feel better when you have had warm food and time to rest. I'll send a messenger back to your mother, so she will know that you have come with me. You foolish child!"

The evening was spent in the ducal palace, whither the surgeon had been summoned with his professional report; and the novel sights and sounds proved so exciting to Georg that long after he was tucked into his cot he lay wide awake, thinking of all that he had enjoyed. When sleep did finally overtake him, he dreamed of the gayly uniformed guards stationed inside and outside the palace, of the massive corridors, rich with works of art, and the vast assembly room where the duke had held an audience, while he himself had looked down from an upper gallery upon the throngs of men and women, the flowers, the banners, and listened to the music wafted from the musicians' balcony opposite.

Christian Händel, a nephew of Georg's, although more than twice the boy's age, was a member of the duke's train, and he had piloted the small visitor about the place, pointing out to him the things that would prove of especial interest. He had likewise introduced his young relative to the musicians, and they, attracted by the boy's straightforward manner and intelligent replies, cordially received him among them.

Morning came before Georg realized that he had been asleep, and with it, Christian, who shook him awake.

"Dress yourself quickly, Georg, for the duke goes to church this morning, and when he attends, nobody else in the house is permitted to stay away."

Christian conducted Georg to the organ-loft, that he might better see the sumptuous chapel and the duke with his richly apparelled retinue passing in for service.

The white-haired organist, whom Georg had met the night before, greeted him pleasantly; and Christian left him in care of the aged musician, while he hurried down to take his place among the crimson-clad retainers.

When, an hour later, the duke sat in his apartment at breakfast, the sound of the organ fell upon his ear. Himself a passionate lover of music, he could readily distinguish the touch of the various players at court; but this soft and unfamiliar strain caused him to bend forward with a puzzled look. Gradually the music grew more distinct, and soon the palace resounded with a strong and stately melody.

"Who is at the organ?" the duke demanded suddenly, glancing inquiringly at one of his attendants.

"It is the little Händel from Halle, your grace," replied Christian.

"A relative of yours?"

The young man blushed, for he was unwilling to confess to an eight-year-old uncle; but he told the truth and satisfied his pride by explaining distinctly,—

"He is my grandfather's youngest son."

"Bring him hither, and his father also."

Christian disappeared, and presently Mr. Händel entered by one door, just before his son and grandson appeared on the threshold of the other.

The duke motioned the old gentleman to a distant corner, and beckoned the boy to approach.

Georg, bereft of Christian's support, and unaware of his father's presence, became so frightened that his breath almost failed as he advanced, and he wondered wildly if the trembling of his knees could be detected by the company. He carried his black beaver on his arm, as he had seen the courtiers do, and when he came within a few feet of the ducal chair, he bowed with a curious little bob that set the whole room laughing.

"Silence!" commanded the duke sternly; then turning, he kindly asked his small auditor what his name might be.

"Georg Friedrich Händel," replied the boy tremulously, but with the sound of his own voice his terror dissolved, and he stood before the Duke of Sächse with respectful composure.

"When did you learn to play the organ, my manikin?"

"This morning, your grace."

"This morning!" echoed the duke, astounded. "Can it be true that you have never tried the instrument before to-day?"

"Well, you see, we have no organ at home," returned Georg apologetically.

The duke studied him for a moment, as though seeking for traces of falsehood, but Georg's utter simplicity was strangely convincing.

Quietly the duke put his next question.

"Upon what instruments have you played before?"

"Last winter and this summer I have played every day on my aunt's clavichord, your grace."

Here a loud gasp was heard from a distant corner, but the duke frowned for silence.

"And what before the clavichord, my boy?"

"A mouth organ, a tin trumpet, a fife, a drum, and a dinner-bell, your grace."

A dozen irrepressible titters burst from the attendants, but the duke grew very grave.

"And that is all, lad?"

"All, your grace."

"No lessons?"

"No—except when Aunt Anna and I taught each other. But you mustn't tell father about the clavichord, your grace, because it is a secret, and father told me to give away my own instruments, and Aunt Anna wouldn't like to give away her clavichord, so please don't let him know about it."

"I am afraid that he knows already," said the duke, smiling; and at his signal, the Halle surgeon emerged from his corner, pale with amazement.

Georg was so confounded at sight of his parent, that, unable to meet his expected look of condemnation, he buried his face in the folds of the duke's breakfast cloth.

"I am sorry, Mr. Händel," said the duke, "that I betrayed the child's secret. Had I known there was anything confidential in the interview, I should have held it in private. But now that the mischief is done, will you tell me why you oppose the musical study that Georg desires?"

"Merely, your grace, because he neglects his school for music when I allow it. I am a music-lover myself, but I wish to educate my son for a jurist, and I cannot have the plan interfered with, even by music."

"Let me suggest, then, that you allow the music lessons and compel the school lessons, taking away the instrument if he fails at school; and when he is old enough and wise enough to be a jurist, he will be capable of choosing for himself the work of his life."

"I thank you, your grace! The advice is fair and judicious, and I shall be happy to act upon it. If I have made a mistake, it was out of concern for the child's best good, your grace."

"An error on the safe side, Mr. Händel. A-ha, my small minstrel, do you hear how your father and I have arranged matters?"

Georg had not fully understood the conversation, but he gathered that the duke had somehow persuaded the surgeon to allow his little son to play upon the clavichord as much as he wished, if he were faithful at school.

"Does the prospect please you?" asked the duke, his eyes twinkling.

"It does, it does!" cried Georg, his face radiant. "I am obliged to your grace, and I am sure that you are almost as good and fine a person as my Aunt Anna."

One night, in London, a concert was given at a certain music-hall, and the money earned from the sale of tickets was to be used to relieve the poor children of the city.

Such a throng of people crowded into the hall that every seat was promptly filled, and the door-keepers were obliged to turn away many who desired to attend.

King George II. appeared in the royal box, and when he had been respectfully saluted by the people, the hall grew still. The stage was filled with singers, and soon the room resounded with the thrilling notes of a new piece called "The Messiah."

The people had expected to be only pleasantly entertained, but as one strain followed another, they bent forward entranced. Such harmonies they had never listened to before, and the people in the hall were moved to the point of tears. At length the sounds grew so impressive that the king could contain himself no longer, but leaped to his feet. Instantly the people, following the lead of their sovereign, rose impulsively in their places, and so standing, they waited until the glorious chorus was ended.

Throughout the performance, a fine old gentleman sat quietly on the stage near the singers, listening intently. His face wore a look of noble earnestness, and he did not smile until the last note died away, and from every part of the house voices cried,—

"Händel! Händel!"

For a moment he did not respond to their calls, but as the hall fell into a tumult, and the shout increased to a deafening roar, the white-haired gentleman rose and quietly bowed.

This did not satisfy the crowd, and from above, below, from right and from left, excited men and women demanded that he should play for them.

The old gentleman bowed again, but finding that the audience would not depart until he had yielded to its desire, he turned toward the massive organ at his right.

Before he had taken a step, one of the singers hurried to his side, laid a hand upon his arm, and conducted him slowly to the organ-bench. Then it was that any stranger would have learned what all London understood,—that the courtly old gentleman was blind.

At the first rich chord from the organ, a hush fell upon the room, and when the silvery-haired musician finished, and rose to his feet with another stately bow, the people silently filed out, too stirred by the grandeur of his music for ordinary speech.

That night, in the city of London, hundreds of suffering and friendless children were gathered into places of refuge, and were fed, warmed, and clothed with the money earned by the genius and loving-kindness of Georg Friedrich Händel.

SIX HUNDRED PLUS ONE [COLERIDGE]

Up to London, one May morning, came Samuel Coleridge, and as the coach rattled over the pavements, and the roar and tumult of the city filled his ears, the boy clutched his uncle's arm with delight. Never before in all his ten years had he journeyed beyond the quaint country village where he was born, and the dun clouds of city smoke caused him to look expectantly about for rain.

His uncle laughed and patted the boy's arm good-naturedly. "Never mind," he said; "these crowded streets will soon become as homelike to you as one of your Devonshire fields."

Mr. Bowdon was right, and at the end of a week Samuel could go alone about the quarter of the city where his uncle resided, and his ears grew so accustomed to the mighty din that he quite forgot there was any noise to hear.

Samuel was the youngest of thirteen children. His mother was a widow, and gradually she had become too poor to provide food and shelter for so great a family. To be sure, the oldest brothers and sisters aided her as best they could, but times were hard, money was scarce at best, and when Uncle Bowdon proposed to undertake the care and education of Samuel his offer was thankfully accepted. It was planned that the boy should visit at his uncle's house for several weeks, and that later in the summer he should enter the famous charity school known as Christ's Hospital. Many families sought to send their sons to this school, but only those pupils were admitted who were too poor to pay for their education.

Samuel was tall for his age, and very dark. He was attractive without being handsome, for his striking look of intelligence, his slight, straight figure and ready laughter, earned for him the frankest approval of friends and strangers too.

Mr. Bowdon was exceedingly proud of him, and often took him to his club, that his friends might become acquainted with his young guest. Also Mr. Bowdon planned frequent excursions about the city, so that his nephew might enjoy the notable sights of London. These were indeed gala days for Samuel, and when the time came for him to go to school he could scarcely believe that ten weeks had flown since he had come up by the coach from his country home. It is doubtful whether Mr. Bowdon would have been willing to part with the lad even after so long a visit, but his business just at this time compelled him to take a long journey to the East Indies, and he desired to see the boy safely established before departing from London.

Accordingly, one fine July afternoon, uncle and nephew arrived at the great school in Newgate Street, through whose high iron gate they were admitted by a boy wearing a queer costume of blue and yellow. Samuel had no eyes for the stately buildings grouped about the enclosure, for across the shaded central grass-plot marched a veritable army of boys, walking four abreast with military precision. Like the page at the gate, they wore long blue coats reaching nearly to the ankle and trimly girdled with red, bright yellow stockings, low buckled shoes and neckbands of snowy whiteness. Oddly enough, their heads were bare, and Samuel supposed that they had left their caps behind, though he learned later that the "king's boys," as these were called, never wore head coverings of any description, but went serenely abroad in all weathers, guiltless of beaver, helmet, or turban.

On they came, more boys and more boys, until Samuel grew fairly dizzy with watching the steadily moving column.

"What is the occasion?" inquired Mr. Bowdon of the gatekeeper.

"The lord mayor is visiting the school to-day, sir, and the scholars are going now to hear his address."

When the gayly apparelled procession had gone in, the steward of the school, a young man in russet gown, came to greet the strangers and to show them about the place. He conducted them through the twelve dormitories, where rows of narrow white beds stood side by side down either wall; to the dining-hall with its long tables, where all the students sat down at once; and to the office of the registrar, a spectacled old gentleman, who took down a great book and gravely wrote upon one of its yellowish pages,—

"Samuel Taylor Coleridge, aged ten; born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, October, 1772. Regularly entered at Christ's Hospital, July 18, 1782."

Then Mr. Bowdon took his departure, for he was to leave the city at nightfall. Samuel accompanied him to the gate, where he received his uncle's affectionate farewells, then peering wistfully through the iron palings, he watched the portly figure move slowly down Newgate Street, until it was lost to view in the passing crowds.

With the last glimpse of Mr. Bowdon, Samuel was seized with a sudden panic of fear and loneliness, for never before had he been out of the sight of kindred faces, nor out of the sound of kindred voices. Even the page had left the gate, and Samuel clung to the palings in strange dismay. His attention was arrested by the doors of the lecture-hall being thrown open and the blue and yellow procession reappearing, headed by the lord mayor of London and a company of white-wigged, black-gowned masters and tutors. The gate swung back, the lord mayor received a military salute from the boys, and passed out to his waiting carriage, and at sound of a clanging bell the procession turned and wound its way to the dining-hall, leaving the campus deserted except for the presence of one young stranger.

"I wonder if I am to go in, or if I am to have any supper at all," queried the boy, looking anxiously about, as he suddenly awakened to the fact that he was fearfully hungry. "Nobody knows that I am here but the steward and the old man with the book."

His doubts were relieved by the appearance of the brown-robed steward, who beckoned to him from the entrance of the dining-hall.

Samuel sped to his side, and was ushered into the vast apartment where the pupils sat at dinner. Quiet reigned here, broken only by a subdued conversation at the masters' table, and the voice of a tutor who from a desk at the upper end of the room read a Latin oration for the entertainment of those present.

Samuel was conducted to a vacant seat at one of the long tables, where a wooden bowl of soup and a slice of bread awaited him. These he quickly despatched, and turning to the boy on his right, was about to inquire modestly how he should get a fresh supply, when his neighbor hastily pressed his finger to his lips, as a sign that speech was forbidden. Samuel was surprised at this injunction, especially as he was still hungry, and glancing about the board, he discovered that every other bowl was as empty as his own, and that no single crumb of bread was to be seen.

No one addressed him, but he was aware that numerous pairs of eyes were fixed curiously upon him. He shrank from this open scrutiny, although the boys at his table were all near his own age; and reddening, he gazed persistently at his bowl.

"Ss—ss!" came in a soft hiss from a lad across the table.

"Ss—ss! Ss—ss!" cautiously echoed a dozen others.

Samuel wriggled uncomfortably in his chair, but to his surprise, his neighbor on the right reached over and grasped his knee with friendly force. Samuel instantly responded by seizing the stranger's knee, and, fortified by this unlooked-for support, threw back his head and eyed in turn each lad at the table. There was something in his fearless glance that caused the hisses quickly to subside; and when the bell rang, and the students trooped out, no word of challenge was offered to him. Moreover, no other kind of words came either, for it was the hour of recreation, and the boys swarmed the campus, shouting, whistling, singing, and engaging in various athletic games. The most popular sports seemed to be leap-frog and basting-the-bear, for groups everywhere were indulging in these rollicking pastimes.

Samuel stood alone watching, for even his neighbor at table had joined the merry-makers. He decided that if he wished to become one of them he must make a bold move; so, marching up to one of the leap-frog companies, he ventured to enter the game. The effort was quickly foiled, however, for one pupil seized him by the leg, another by the hair, while twenty voices shouted at once,—

"Clear out! Don't you know you can't play with us till you get your blue coat?"

Samuel retired, much crestfallen, wondering when he should be promoted to the prevailing uniform. He wandered up and down the schoolyard, watching here, watching there, hearing never a word of greeting, nor meeting with a friendly nod or smile. At length he came upon an outer stairway, which seemed to lead somewhere, and climbing it, more with the desire to get away from the hordes of strangers than to explore the premises, he came out upon a flat, leaded roof. Resting his folded arms upon the parapet, he stood gazing at the evening sky, solitary and sad. Up to him came the shouts of the students and the roar of the city's noises, and for the first time since he had come to London, his heart turned back with a mighty longing to the fields, the river, and the simple folk of his native village. If only he might hear the lapping of the water and the tinkling of the sheep bells, he would give all that he possessed in the world. He thought of his mother and of his big brother Luke, and the vision of their faces came before him with such startling plainness that he set his teeth and clenched his hands to stem the tide of homesickness that surged over him.

At sound of the deep-toned bell, he hurried down the stair, suspecting that the slender supper was about to be supplemented by a tea or luncheon of some sort; but he was mistaken, for, although the western sky was still ablaze, the boys were filing toward the dormitories.

"This way, Coleridge," called the steward, appearing on the green.

"Where are they going?" inquired Samuel.

"To bed," rejoined the other briefly.

"To bed!" ejaculated Samuel; "why, it's only seven o'clock!"

"Seven is the hour for bed at this school," explained the other shortly, and Samuel gathered from his tone that further comment would be unacceptable.

Awakened next morning by the signal bell, Samuel sat up in his narrow cot and blinked sleepily. Across his bed was thrown a complete uniform such as the other boys wore, and springing up, he gladly donned the costume, and marched down with the others.

At breakfast he sat in the same seat he had occupied last night, and his right-hand neighbor greeted him with a cordial pinch on the arm.

The meal this morning consisted of a quarter-of-a-penny-loaf, on a wooden plate, and a small leathern cup of beer. Samuel was accustomed to rich country milk, fruit, and vegetables; but with yesterday's hunger still unappeased, he could not afford to be fastidious. In a twinkling the bread and beer had disappeared, and he was unconsciously glancing about in search of some one who would serve him with more, when he chanced to notice that every plate and cup at the table was swept clean, and that the lads were shifting about in their chairs as though anxious to be dismissed. Then it was that Samuel realized with a curious pang that plates were never refilled at Christ's Hospital, and that the allowance was always distressingly small. Almost as hungry as when he had sat down, he rose with the others and passed outside.

He was about to speak to his table neighbor, when that young person suddenly set off for the high iron palings. Without stood a half-grown girl, holding a little basket on her arm, and when the boy came up with her, she took something from the tiny hamper, and passed it through the fence. That the gift was in the nature of food of some sort, Samuel discovered from the alacrity with which the boy proceeded to devour it; and the lad from Devonshire stood watching the operation with the strangest of gnawing sensations inside him. Other boys looked greedily at this spectacle, but went about their affairs as though the sight were a familiar one; and Samuel, following their example, was turning mechanically away when a beckoning gesture from the lad at the fence called him thither.

"Here, I like you, and I'll give you a bit. Come on!"

Before Samuel had time to accept or decline, the stranger had crowded into his hand a hot roll, and was all but pouring a small can of tea down his throat.

"Thank you—it's fine," gurgled Samuel, "but I don't want to take the things you ought to have."

"I can spare some. You see I'm ashamed to have this stuff brought to me when the other boys can't get any, but when it comes, I'm so starved I eat it anyway. My sister brings a little breakfast over every day, for our house isn't very far away, and it helps out, I can tell you. Here's another piece of crust. Eat it, quick, for I know you want it."

Samuel accepted the proffered fragments gladly, frankly confessing that he had not felt quite satisfied at breakfast.

"Oh, we never have enough here," remarked the other calmly. "Wednesdays are the best, for then they give us meat stew; but that happens only one day in seven."

While Samuel swallowed the pleasing morsels, he keenly examined the face of his generous host. The strange boy was apparently a year or two younger than himself, slightly Jewish in appearance, and very handsome. He was frail-looking, with curling black hair, bright dark eyes, and sensitive lips. His expression was thoughtful, and something in his impulsive manner had attracted Samuel from the beginning.

"What's your name?" demanded the younger lad, when Samuel had finished his unexpected breakfast.

"Samuel Taylor Coleridge. What's yours?"

"Charles Lamb; and this is my sister Mary."

The girl smiled prettily, and waving her basket as she turned to go, called back, "You must come to see us some time with Charles."

Samuel thanked her and promised; and as the bell rang, summoning the pupils to lessons, he inquired,—

"How many boys are there here?"

"Six hundred."

"Plus one, now I've come."

"I like you," declared Charles again, linking his arm with that of the new boy, as they fell into line.

"I like you, too," responded the other warmly; and so began a friendship that grew stronger with each succeeding day.

Samuel was speedily installed in school work, and having been a book-lover from the age of three, he was placed in a class of boys who were generally older than himself. With these he made friends at once, for his originality, both in work and play, won the admiration of the lads. With the teachers, too, Samuel fared better than most, for while James Bowyer was not a man to be trifled with, having always a birch twig within reach for the correction of young offenders, his wrath seldom descended upon pupils so apt as Samuel.

"But," cautioned Charles, "look out for Jemmy Bowyer when he wears his passy wig!" He meant passionate, for on some occasions the head master appeared in the school-room with his smooth and carefully powdered wig replaced by an old, unkempt, and discolored one, and woe to the pupil who failed in his lessons or otherwise displeased him while thus decorated! His head-dress was the barometer that warned the boys of his moods, and they modelled their conduct accordingly.

Mr. Bowyer was a conscientious teacher, who desired to give the lads most thorough and careful instruction, and the boys who studied earnestly were safe from the touch of his rod except on the days when he wore the "passy wig." Then his temper was most uncertain, and worker and laggard alike were frequently brought to judgment.

At the end of a week, Samuel felt as though he had been a member of Christ's Hospital for a long, long time. Each day was spent like every other day, and he soon found himself going through the routine of study, recitation, play, and sleep as familiarly as the oldest student there.

On Saturday morning Charles said,—

"This is our weekly holiday, you know. Where will you go?"

"Nowhere, I suppose," replied Samuel. "My uncle has left town, and I don't know anybody else in London, so I think I'll have to stay here."

"You can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because nobody is allowed to stay inside the grounds on leave-days. We are all turned out as soon as breakfast is over, the gates are locked, and we can't come in again until evening."

"But surely they won't send us out who have no friends in London!"

"Oh, yes, they will. But come along, and we'll spend the day together somewhere. I'm not going home this time, because my people are away at work."

At eight o'clock six hundred boys filed into Newgate Street and scattered in all directions. For those whose parents resided in town, this weekly holiday was always most welcome; but to the boys who had neither kindred nor friends within reach, the enforced leave-day was often a difficult one.

To-day Samuel and Charles walked about the streets for a time, then made their way to the bank of the New River. Here, to Samuel's delight, green fields stretched before them, birds twittered in the trees, and sleek cows browsed along the shore.

"Oh, oh!" he exclaimed, "this is almost as good as the real country."

With one accord the boys snatched off their garments and plunged into the stream. Both were good swimmers, and they splashed about, diving, floating, and showing their skill in various ways, until they grew tired. Ascending the bank, they dressed quickly and wandered farther up the stream. For a while they threw stones into the current, watching the eddies widen from each pebble that sank into the water; and after a time they lounged against a convenient tree, Samuel relating stories that he had read of ancient heroes, and Charles eagerly listening.

"I wonder what time it is," hinted the latter at length.

"Not much past noon," replied Samuel, glancing at the sun with the experienced eye of the country-bred.

"Wouldn't it be fine if we were cows, with a whole field-full of dinner spread before us," murmured Charles, gazing at the Alderneys beyond.

"And see how fat that bird is! He must eat four or five meals every day!" exclaimed Samuel; then hastening to turn the conversation to topics less vital, he asked genially,—

"What things do you like best in the world?"

"Let me see," mused Charles; "yes, I know very well. I like money, vegetables, and my sister Mary. What do you?"

"Homes, churches, trees, and old people's faces," returned Samuel promptly. "What shall we do now,—go back into town?"

"Not yet, for if we do, we must keep on walking for four or five hours."

"Let's go swimming again, then."