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 hand on his yellow curls, and, turning 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, $1,500 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 tried and tempted, he knelt
down by his mother's bedside and uttered a simple prayer, asking God's
blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to notice their affliction.
The memory of that prayer made the singer more tender-hearted, and she,
who was the idol of England's nobility, went about doing good. And in
her early, happy death, he who stood beside her bed and smoothed her
pillow, and lightened her last moments by his undying affection, was
little Pierre of former days, now rich, accomplished, and the most
talented composer of the day.
O singer of the heart,
The heart that never dies!
The Lord's interpreter thou art,
His angel from the skies.
Thy work on earth is great
As his who saves a soul,
Or his who guides the ship of state,
When mountain-billows roll.
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