his immortal child — the spirit - infant of his soul — his darling of many years of patient obscurity and pining genius — his masterpiece — his opera of the Siren!
This, then, was the mystery that had so galled him — this the cause of the quarrel with the Cardinal — this the secret not to be proclaimed till the success was won, and the daughter had united her father's triumph with her own!
And there she stands, as all souls bow before her — fairer than the very Siren he had called from the deeps of melody. Oh! long and sweet recompense of toil! Where is on earth the rapture like that which is known to genius when at last it bursts from its hidden cavern into light and fame!
He did not speak — he did not move — he stood transfixed, breathless — the tears rolling down his cheeks: only from time to time his hands still wandered about — mechanically they sought for the faithful instrument — why was it not there to share his triumph?
At last the curtain fell; but on such a storm — and diapason of applause! Up rose the audience as one man — as with one voice that dear name was shouted. She came on — trembling, pale — and in the whole crowd saw but her father's face. The audience followed those moistened eyes — they recognised with a thrill the daughter's impulse and her meaning. The good old Cardinal drew him gently forward — "Wild musician! thy daughter has given thee back more than the life thou gavest!
"My poor violin!" said he, wiping his eyes — "they will never hiss thee again now!"
