the other back to his household charms, and the work he had chosen.




A Night In The Cathedral.


Franz Hoffner's father was kappelmeister; and the old cathedral with
its grained arches and cloistered aisles resounded with rare music, as
the organist took his seat, and run his fingers over the keys with the
careless ease of one who knows not only to control, but to infuse
something of his own spirit into the otherwise senseless machine
before him. Under his inspiration it became a living, breathing form;
lifting the hearts of worshippers, and giving them glimpses of what is
hereafter to be obtained.

Herr Hoffner was a rare musician; but, alas, musicians are no
exception to the rule: the wheel is always turning; one goes up and
another goes down. A new star had risen. Court belles and beauties
grew enthusiastic. The elector's heart was touched; his influence was
asked. "Herr Hoffner has been here long enough," it was said. There
was a twinge of the electoral conscience.

Herr Hoffner went to his house a ruined man; and the new favorite,
Carl Von Stein, played upon the keys so dear to the heart of the old
organist.

Herr Hoffner had a wife and two lovely children; and one would suppose
that he could live in the beautiful cottage the elector had given him,