Lord Himself were on thee, and His ears listening to thee crying out thy Hosannas, and His dear voice speaking of thee and through thee, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me.'"

But Gottlieb looked grave and rather troubled.

"So few seem thinking just of His listening," he said doubtfully. "There are the choir-master and the Dean and Chapter, and the other choristers, and the Cistercians, and the mothers of the other choristers, who wish them to sing best."

She took his hand. "So there were in that old Jerusalem," she said. "The Pharisees, who wanted to stop the children's singing; and even the dear disciples, who often thought they might be troublesome to the Master. But the little ones sang for Him; and He knew, and was pleased. And that is all we have to think of now."

He kissed her, and went away with a lightened brow.

Many of the neighbours came in that afternoon to congratulate Magdalis on her boy—his face, his voice, his gentle ways.

"And then he sings with such feeling," said one. "One sees it is in his heart."

But in the evening Gottlieb came home very sad and desponding. For some time he said nothing, and then, with a brave effort to restrain his tears, he murmured,—

"Oh, mother! I am afraid it will soon be over. I heard one of the priests say he thought they had a new chorister at the Cistercians whose voice is as good as mine. So that the archduchess may not like our choir best, after all."

The mother said nothing for a moment, and then she said,—

"Whose praise and love will the boy at the Cistercian convent sing, Gottlieb, if he has such a lovely voice?"

"God's!—the dear Heavenly Father and the Saviour!" he said reverently.

"And you, my own? Will another little voice on earth prevent His hearing you? Do the thousands of thousands always singing to Him above prevent His hearing you? And what would the world do if the only voice worth listening to were thine? It cannot be heard beyond one church, or one street. And the good Lord has ten thousand churches, and cities full of people who want to hear."

"But thou, mother! Thou and Lenichen, and the bread!"

"It was the raven that brought the bread," she said smiling; "and thou art not even a raven,—only a little child to pick up the bread the raven brought."

He sat silent a few minutes, and then the terrible cloud of self and pride dropped off from his heart like a death-shroud, and he threw himself into her arms.

"Oh, mother, I see it all!" he said. "I am free again. I have only to sing to the blessed Lord of all, quite sure He listens, to Him alone, and to all else as just a little one of the all He loves."

And after the evening meal, and a game with Lenichen, the boy crept out to the Cathedral to say his prayers in one of the little chapels, and to thank God.

He knelt in the Lady chapel before the image of the Infant Christ on the mother's knees.

And as he knelt there, it came into his heart that all the next week was Passion week, "the still week," and would be silent; and the tears filled his eyes as he remembered how little he had enjoyed singing that day.

"How glad the little children of Jerusalem must have been," he thought, "that they sang to Jesus when they could. I suppose they never could again; for the next Friday He was dead. Oh, suppose He never let me sing to Him again!"

And tears and repressed sobs came fast at the thought, and he murmured aloud, thinking no one was near,—

"Dear Saviour, only let me sing once more here in church to you, and I will think of no one but you; not of the boys who laugh at me, nor the people who praise me, nor the Cistercians, nor the archduchess, nor even the dear choir-master, but only of you, of you, and perhaps of mother and Lenichen. I could not help that, and you would not mind it. You and they love me so much more than any one, and I love you really so much more than all besides. Only believe it, and try me once more."

As he finished, in his earnestness the child spoke quite loud, and from a dark corner in the shadow of a pillar suddenly arose a very old man in a black monk's robe, with snow-white hair, and drew close to him, and laid his hand on his shoulder, and said,—

"Fear not, my son. I have a message for thee."

At first, Gottlieb was much frightened; and then, when he heard the kind, tremulous old voice, and saw the lovely, tender smile on the wrinkled, pallid old face, he thought God must really have sent him an angel at last, though certainly not because he was good.

"Look around on these lofty arches, and clustered columns, and the long aisles, and the shrines of saints, and the carved wreaths of flowers and fruits, and the glorious altar! Are these wonderful to thee? Couldst thou have thought of them, or built them?"

"I could as easily have made the stars, or the forests!" said the child.

"Then look at me," the old man said, with a gentle smile on his venerable face, "a poor worn-out old man, whom no one knows. This beautiful house was in my heart before a stone of it was reared. God put it in my heart. I planned it all. I remember this place a heap of poor cottages as small as thine; and now it is a glorious house of God. And I was what they called the master-builder. Yet no man knows me, or says, 'Look at him!' They look at the Cathedral, God's house; and that makes me glad in my inmost soul. I prayed that I might be nothing, and all the glory be His; and He has granted my prayer. And I am as little and as free in this house which I built as in His own forests, or under His own stars; for it is His only, as they are His. And I am nothing but His own little child, as thou art. And He has my hand and thine in His, and will not let us go."

The child looked up, nearly certain now that it must be an angel. To have lived longer than the Cathedral seemed like living when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy.

"Then God will let me sing here next Easter!" he said, looking confidingly in the old man's face.

"Thou shalt sing, and I shall see, and I shall hear thee, but thou wilt not hear or see me!" said the old man, taking both the dimpled hands in one of his. "And the blessed Lord will listen, as to the little children in Jerusalem of old. And we shall be His dear, happy children for evermore."

Gottlieb went home and told his mother. And they both agreed, that if not an angel, the old man was as good as an angel, and was certainly a messenger of God.

To have been the master-builder of the Cathedral of which it was Magdalis's glory and pride that her husband had carved a few of the stones!

The master-builder of the Cathedral, yet finding his joy and glory in being a little child of God!

VI.

The "silent week" that followed was a solemn time to the mother and the boy.

Every day, whatever time could be spared from the practice with the choir, and from helping in the little house and with his mother's wood-carving, or from playing with Lenichen in the fields, Gottlieb spent in the silent Cathedral, draped as it was in funereal black for the Sacred Life given up to God for man.

"How glad," he thought again and again, "the little children of Jerusalem must have been that they sang when they could to the blessed Jesus! They little knew how soon the kind hands that blessed them would be stretched on the cross, and the kind voice that would not let their singing be stopped would be moaning 'I thirst.'"

But he felt that he, Gottlieb, ought to have known; and if ever he was allowed to sing his Hosannas in the choir again, it would feel like the face of the blessed Lord himself smiling on him, and His voice saying, "Suffer this little one to