While the music continued with true martial spirit, the door opened softly, and a plump, fair girl of sixteen peeped into the room. Perceiving the occupation of the children, she smiled brightly and slipped away. A moment later another form appeared upon the threshold, that of an elderly, dignified man. His hair was white, his eyes were protected by huge gold spectacles, his shoulders were slightly bent; but a close observer would have readily detected a resemblance between the handsome old gentleman and the leader of the orchestra. One bore the markings of age, the other the dimples of childhood; but they plainly displayed a kindred will, energy, and intelligence, although one was seventy and the other but seven.
Mr. Händel was the town surgeon of Halle, appointed by the Duke of Sächse, and the flaxen-haired boy was the idolized child of his declining years.
At first sight of the juvenile orchestra the visitor smiled as indulgently as had the girl before him, entering the chamber unobserved, and seating himself in a distant corner where he could watch the highly interesting performance. But he turned quickly grave when his eye fell upon the small director, who was bending anxiously forward, his whole being absorbed in the sounds that issued from the toys at signal of his cane. The flush that burned the leader's cheek, the intensity of his glance, and the strained alertness of his lithe young body, seemed a forbidding vision to the old gentleman, for his face clouded and he shook his head in increasing disapproval.
Presently the concert ended, the children scrambled noisily to their feet, and the conductor leaned upon his cane, regarding them with the serene composure of a man who has wrought successfully and is modestly proud of the fact.
"We must go home, Georg," said Peter, exchanging his bell for his cap.
"I'm going to run, 'cause I'm so dretful hungry," announced Frieda, disappearing in quest of curds and seed cakes.
"You may all go now," consented the director affably, "but," raising a commanding finger, "we will practise again at seven o'clock to-morrow morning, and whoever is one minute late won't be invited to my party in the afternoon."
"Oh, Georg," wailed Frieda, recalled from the corridor by this edict, "must I come at seven, whether I've had any breakfast or not?"