"Ah! married?" said Mr. Buschmann,
gaily. "Married of course. Tell me all about
your husband, Sarah."

"He is dead. Dead, and forgiven." She
murmured the last three words in a whisper
to herself.

"Ah! I am so sorry for you! I spoke too
suddenly, did I not, my child?" said the old
man. " Never mind! No, no; I don't mean
that— I mean let us talk of something else.
You will have a bit of bread and jam, won't
you, Sarah?—ravishing raspberry jam that
melts in your mouth. Some tea, then? So, so,
she will have some tea, to be sure. And we
won't talk of our troubles—at least, not just
yet. You look very pale, Sarah, very much older
than you ought to look—no, I don't mean that
either; I don't mean to be rude. It was your
voice I knew you by, my child—your voice
that your poor uncle Max always said would
have made your fortune if you would only
have learnt to sing. Here's his pretty music-
box going still. Don't look so down-hearted—
don't, pray! Do listen a little to the music:
you remember the box? my brother Max's
box? Why, how you look! Have you
forgotten the box that the divine Mozart gave
to my brother with his own hand, when Max
was a boy in the music-school at Vienna?
Listen! I have set it going again. It's a
song they call Batti, Batti; it's a song in an
opera of Mozart's. Ah, beautiful! beautiful!
your uncle Max said that all music was
comprehended in that one song. I know
nothing about music, but I have my heart
and my ears, and they tell me that Max was
right."

Speaking these words with abundant
gesticulation and amazing volubility, Mr.
Buschmann poured out a cup of tea for his niece,
stirred it carefully, and, patting her on the
shoulder, begged that she would make him
happy by drinking it all up directly. As he
came close to her to press this request, he
discovered that the tears were in her eyes,
and that she was trying to take her
handkerchief from her pocket without being
observed.

"Don't mind me," she said, seeing the old
man's face sadden as he looked at her; " and
don't think me forgetful or ungrateful, uncle
Joseph. I remember the box— I remember
everything that you used to take an interest
in, when I was younger and happier than I
am now. When I last saw you, I came to
you in trouble; and I come to you in trouble
once more. It seems neglectful in me never
to have written to you for so many years
past; but my life has been a very sad one,
and I thought I had no right to lay the burden
of my sorrow on other shoulders than
my own."

Uncle Joseph shook his head at these last
words, and touched the stop of the musical
box. " Mozart shall wait a little," he said,
gravely, " till I have told you something.
Sarah, hear what I say, and drink your tea,
and own to me whether I speak the truth
or not. What did I, Joseph Buschmann, tell
you, when you first came to me in trouble,
fourteen, fifteen, ah more! sixteen years ago,
in this town, and in this same house? I
said then, what I say again, now: Sarah's
sorrow is my sorrow, and Sarah's joy is my
joy; and if any man asks me reasons for
that, I have three to give him."

He stopped to stir up his niece's tea for
the second time, and to draw her attention
to it, by tapping with the spoon on the edge
of the cup.

"Three reasons" he resumed. " First, you
are my sister's child—some of her flesh and
blood, and some of mine, therefore, also.
Second, my sister, my brother, and, lastly,
me myself, we owe to your good English
father—all. A little word that means much,
and may be said again and again—all. Your
father's friends cry, Fie! Agatha Buschmann
is poor, Agatha Buschmann is foreign! But
your father loves the poor German girl, and
he marries her in spite of their Fie, Fie.
Your father's friends cry Fie! again; Agatha
Buschmann has a musician brother, who
gabbles to us about Mozart, and who cannot
make to his porridge, salt. Your father says,
Good! I like his gabble; I like his playing;
I shall get him people to teach; and while I
have pinches of salt in my kitchen, he to his
porridge shall have pinches of salt, too. Your
father's friends cry, Fie! for the third time.
Agatha Buschmann has another brother,
a little Stupid-Head, who to the other's
gabble can only listen and say Amen. Send
him trotting; for the love of Heaven, shut
up all the doors and send Stupid-Head trotting,
at least! Your father says, No! Stupid-
Head has his wits in his hands; he can cut,
and carve, and polish; help him a little at
the starting; and, after, he shall help
himself. They are all gone now but me!
Your father, your mother, and uncle Max—
they are all gone! Stupid-Head alone
remains to remember and to be grateful—to take
Sarah's sorrow for his sorrow, and Sarah's
joy for his joy."

He stopped again, to blow a speck of dust
off the musical box. His niece endeavoured
to speak, but he held up his hand, and shook
his forefinger at her warningly.

"No," he said. " It is yet my business to
talk, and your business to drink tea. Have
I not my third reason still? Ah! you look
away from me; you know my third reason,
before I say a word. When I, in my turn,
marry, and my wife dies, and leaves me alone
with little Joseph, and when the boy falls
sick, who comes then, so quiet, so pretty,
so neat, with the bright young eyes, and the
hands so tender and light? Who helps me
with little Joseph by night and by day?
Who makes a pillow for him on her arm
when his head is weary? Who holds this
box patiently at his ear? —yes! this box,
that the hand of Mozart has touched—Who