awaited her through them.

Gombert was the composer of the bird-song, and, as she remembered how the
refrain of this composition had affected Wolf the day before, she heard
the door close behind the group.

Then the desire to please, which had never left her since she earned the
first applause, seized upon her more fiercely than ever.

Of what consequence were the listeners before whom she had hitherto sung
compared with those whose footsteps were now echoing on the lowest
stairs? And, half animated by an overpowering secret impulse, she sang
the refrain "Car la saison est bonne" aloud while passing the stairs on
her way into the dancing hall, where the rehearsal was to take place.

What an artless delight in the fairest, most pleasing thing in Nature to
a sensitive young human soul this simple sentence voiced to the
Netherland musicians! It seemed to them as if the song filled the dim,
cold corridor with warmth and sunlight. Thus Gombert had heard within
his mind the praise of spring when he set it to music, but had never
before had it thus understood by any singer, reproduced by any human
voice.

The excitable man stood as if spellbound; only a curt "My God! my God!"
gave expression to his emotion. The blunter Appenzelder, on the
contrary, when the singer suddenly paused and a door closed behind her,
exclaimed: "The deuce, that's fine!--If that were your helper in need,
Sir Wolf, all would be well!"

"It is," replied Wolf proudly, with sparkling eyes; but the honest old