Peter,” was the reply; “he teaches music at the principal houses, even the mayor’s house, and gives his daughter, Lottie, an hour’s lesson on the piano.”
And he could play,—yes, play music that went right to the heart, the most wonderfully beautiful melodies, and often without notes.
He played in the moonlight as well as in the dark. “He is certainly very persevering,” said the neighbours, and the alarm drum said the same. His playing made those who listened feel as if lifted above the earth to the music of heaven, and reminded them of that place of rest on high.
And he taught the mayor’s daughter Lottie, to play like himself. As she sat at the piano, and her delicate fingers glided over the keys, Peter’s heart would flutter and swell as if it were ready to burst, and this happened not only once but many times. And one day he suddenly took the delicate fingers and the beautifully formed hand in his own, and kissed it, and looking at her with his great brown eyes said something—but what it was we outsiders dare not guess.
Lottie stood up with a deep flush on her cheeks, and appeared speechless.
Strange footsteps were heard approaching, and the son of a member of the council entered. He had a high, white forehead, and carried himself very erect. Peter sat along time with them. Lottie, however, glanced at him with very friendly eyes.
That evening, in the family circle at home, he spoke of his experience in the world, and of the “Golden Treasure, whose heart was in his violin.”
“Glory! fame! tummelum, tummelum, tummelumst,” beat the alarm drum. “Peter is gone crazy, his house is on fire, I believe.”
His mother went the next day to the market. When she came back she said, “I have news for you, Peter,—such good news, the mayor’s daughter, Lottie, is engaged to the son of the councillor; it happened yesterday evening.”
«Impossible!” cried Peter, starting from his seat; but his mother said “It is true, for the barber’s wife told me, and her husband heard it from the lips of the mayor himself.”
Then Peter became pale as death and sat down again without a word.
“Oh, heavens! what is the matter?” cried the mother.
“Nothing! nothing! Leave me alone,” he said, while the tears rolled down his cheeks.
“My dearest child! my golden treasure!” said the mother, and wept: but the alarm drum sang—not indeed truly, but only in the house—
“Lottie is dead! Lottie is dead! see, that is the end of the song.”
But, however, it was not the end of the song, there were many long verses remaining, and indeed the most beautiful, for the subject was, “The Golden Treasure of a life.”
“Good gracious! how foolishly those drummer people are behaving,” said the neighbours. “The whole town is full of letters written by the ‘Golden Treasure’ from the seat of war. Everybody is reading them, as well as what the newspapers say about him and his fiddle. Money also has
