Litchfield enquirer. [volume] (Litchfield, Conn.) 1829-current, 1859-11-18

+ He spoke no word of comfort he coul
not understand her overwhelming grief no
hadshe any sympathy with it. Many long
solitary years. perhaps, had chilled the fee
ings of youth. Perhaps from his calm sta
ton he looked back upon them with kim
| OF pity, smiling at the passionate grief an,
the still more passionate joy that trifes one
could give him. His passion was his art
And he was happy in it, perhaps as happ
as he wished to be, for he had forgotten
much.
| Only when the poor child's wild outburs
of sorrow had partly died away, and tn
deep bitter sobs grew hnshed, did the IA
lpel[meister speak to her.
He spoke to her about her parents
about their poverty, and the small help sh,
had yet been able to give to them of thei
love for her, their pride in her, and the 10,
that it would give her to be the comfor
and support Of their old age. Her hear
answered to each word, and her tears ceasel
to fall, and her resolve grew still more firm
that she would think about herself no more
Then he spoke of her own future rejoicing
that her great talent would be no Longer
hidden that she would make name tc
herself, and gain the honor that here. she
scarcely could have hoped to gain.
She shook her head, and tried to silence
him, and tears rose in her eyes again--for
what was fame to her? And when at last
he tried to strengthen her for her departure
telling her how each day would lessen her
regret how gradually old memories would
fade away how the keen sorrow there,
though hard to bear at first, would lose some
portion of its sharpness every hour-she On
ly shook her head and wept.
My child, it is growing late. They will
be looking for you at home" said the Ka-
pel-meister, breaking the silence that had
fallen over them.
She reused herself, and rose hurridly.
" Yes, | should have gone before-I did
not know how late it was. Master, have
kept you here much too long Forg i've me :;
it is very thougbtless," she said timdly.
NAY, my child, it was l rather who de-
tanned you," he answered kindly.
She stood before him, her lips trembling,
and her eyellds cast down, as if she wished
to speak, and had no courage. Then she
made great effort and the words came out.
"You must not think l am unyrateful-
You have been exceeding kind to me-" She
did not weep, but great sobs heaved up her
bosom convulSively.
"All my lfes gratitude can never be too
much, can never pay you back all that /
owe you--ncver but all my life | will re,
member you, and love you and o, think of
ne when | am gone p
" Yes, l will think Of you, my child" the
kapell-mcister said, and even his voice, so
calm ut all times, seemed shaken with emo
ton now II will think of you as of one
who was taken from me in u moment when |
felt that she might become as dear as a
daaE wits rf t9 t men The Kapemeister stoop
calm kiss upon ksrS aaa Pressed 1850 2 eo!a
few moments had passed, with steady voice
again he gently babe her go and she arose
up weeping no more, and, like a child,
obeyed him. Their last words together were
Of ordinary things
You will be here tomorrow at the usual
time, Berthal0e ?"
" will come, Master"
And so they parted.
For many years, in the choir of the court
chapel at Dresden, Berthalde Reimers voice
had, it was said, so strange a power, that
strong men were moved to tears in hearing
it. Men who had not prayed for years bent
their knees invountarily, and bowed their
heads, awed by its solemn and unutterable
beauty.
For many years she lived, and sung, and
suffered Then she died.
1t is very long ago f; yet, amongst the
people, many kind tradition fingers even
now Of the blind girl who sung so wondrous-
ly; who, coming stranger to their town,
lived with them, gentle to all, yet ever sad
and calm, and pensise, until her aged pas
rents died, then, dying too, as if her work
was done, prayed to be buried far away, in
the country whence she came and so was
laid by loving hands in the spot which she
had chosen, close to nameless grave that
rested in the shadow of an ancient church.