"A pretty tough looking character, that! But I suppose you see a great
many just such specimens in this quaint little town of yours."
Father Antony's back was turned to the speaker and for several moments
he remained standing at the top of the veranda steps, following with his
eyes the slouching figure that had just passed through the gate and was
tramping slowly along the county road. Then, with a sigh he returned to
his seat and, running his fingers through his hair, remarked half
absently:
"Poor fellow, he looked almost exhausted. I tried to persuade him to
remain here a little longer and rest for a spell. What a life theirs is!
Some of them, of course, really enjoy it, but others----. Ah, me! those
poor others. And somehow that tramp who has just left us seems to me to
belong to the latter class rather than to the former. But pardon me,
Father, what was it you were just saying? I was so interested in my
tramp that I failed to catch your words."
"I merely remarked," returned the younger priest, smiling, "that you
must see a great many of these nomadic individuals in this quaint little
town of yours. I have been here but a week and that is the sixth
villainous looking rascal who has presented himself and demanded
something to eat."
"Yes, a large number of tramps pass through here in the course of a
year, for we are on the direct road between the two largest cities of
the State. Many of them are, as you say, villainous looking, but I do
not think they are half as bad as they look. In fact, in some cases, I
have found them to be pretty good fellows once you had passed the rough
exterior and reached the real man underneath."
"You must have had some very interesting experiences with these tramps
of yours; have you not, Father?" asked the younger man curiously. "I
wish you would tell me some of them."
Father Anthony shifted his chair so as to command a better view of the
road. He watched in meditative silence until the tramp had become a mere
blot upon the whiteness of the dusty road and had finally disappeared
over the brow of a distant hill. Then he spoke in tones of reminiscence:
"It was on just such a May evening as this, clear and beautiful only
much cooler, that I sat in this very chair and watched the road as I am
doing now. But on that evening I watched anxiously, divided between
hopes and fears, for the figure that was so long in coming; I was
watching for Jim, the tramp. Jim had promised faithfully, but with some
men promises are made only to be broken. I began to fear that Jim was
one of these. Still I prayed fervently and continued to hope, though the
twilight deepened and brought no sign of my vagrant.
"My meeting with Jim had come about in this way. For some time I had
been playing a game of hide and seek with a certain backsliding member
of my congregation. The hiding was all on his side, the seeking on mine.
Try as I would I could not seem to obtain an interview with him. He was
never at home when I called; so I decided that my only chance of coming
to close quarters with the enemy was to surprise him at his work. That
afternoon I had gone to the quarries and found my man superintending
the gang in charge of the stone-crusher. He certainly was surprised and
not very pleased to see me, and all I could obtain from him after more
than an hour of argument and pleading was a promise that 'he would think
about it.' The 'it' referred to the making of his Easter duty, the time
for which had nearly expired. Bitterly disappointed, and with a feeling
of utter defeat, I was turning away when my steps were arrested by a not
unpleasant voice:
"'Why don't you try your hand on me, Father? I'm a black enough sheep to
keep you busy for a few moments anyway.'
"I wheeled around and found myself confronted by a short, thick-set man
of most unattractive appearance, a man whom you would scarce choose as a
companion along a lonely road at night. At a glance I sized up my new
acquaintance: a typical tramp who had taken a job at stoking the engine
to vary the monotony of the road. He was no professional 'hobo,' but
belonged to that class who take to tramping from necessity rather than
from choice--a too great love for the bottle being the necessity. They
find an odd job here and there, hold it until pay day, squander the
month's earnings in the nearest saloon, then on again in search of a job
somewhere else.
"I am well acquainted with these men, but there was something about the
rough looking specimen before me, a certain something in his manner, in
his speech, in the twinkle of his eyes, which set him apart from the
rest of his class. A grizzled beard of iron grey concealed the lower
half of his face, and the right temple and cheek were disfigured by a
scar which gave the countenance a decidedly sinister appearance. In
spite of that I felt that the man before me had at one time been
accustomed to a very different life from the one he was leading now.
"'Why don't you try your hand on me, Father?' he repeated, and the smile
accompanying the words made the ugly face almost pleasing.
"There was not time for a lengthy conversation, the engine requiring
constant attention, but the tramp volunteered the information that he
answered to the name of Jim, and promised to report at the rectory in
the evening and give me a chance to try my hand on him.
"In the evening, then, I sat and waited, half fearing that he had
changed his mind and would not come. But just as the first pale stars
began to twinkle in the sky Jim pushed open the gate and I went to meet
him with both hands extended in warmest welcome. He gave me his left
hand, and for the first time I noticed that the right was
gone--amputated at the wrist. Jim saw my glance of shocked pity and
smiled as he said calmly:
"'It was the drink did it, Father--the hand and this scar on my face.
I'd been hitting it up pretty lively and didn't realize where I was
walking. The track wasn't wide enough for me and the train. One of us
had to get off, and as the engine was the stronger of the two--well, you
see the result before you.'
"'How long have you been tramping, Jim?' I asked.
"'More years than I care to think of now, Father. The drink again. In
fact, it's been the drink at every turn; it's ruined my life, made a
complete fool of me. But let's get down to business; only, you'll have
to help me out, it's so long since I went to confession I've almost
forgotten how.'
"'Come into the house or the confessional in the church,' I suggested.
"'The house or the confessional in the church? No, thank you, Father. My
little friends up yonder, those pretty, sparkling stars, my only
companions on many a lonely night, have been the witnesses of my
degradation. Let them now behold my restoration to the favor of the God
whom I've offended.'
"Strange words, those, from a tramp, and I marveled at them. Without
more ado we 'got down to business,' and it was nearly two hours later
when we parted at the gate. In answer to a question of mine, Jim replied
whimsically:
"'Where do I live while I'm working on this job? Well, you see, Father,
I am rather particular with regard to my lodgings, and as there is
nothing around here that quite suits me, I just crawl under the engine
and sleep there.'
"'But when it rains, Jim?'
"'Well, it just rains, that's all.'
"The next morning Jim attended my Mass and received Holy Communion, and
every morning after that when I entered the church to offer up the Holy
Sacrifice the first person I would see would be my one-armed tramp
kneeling in a far corner, his rosary slipping through his fingers. The
rosary had belonged to his mother, and during all his years of tramping
he had guarded it as his most precious treasure. He had worn it in a
little chamois bag suspended from a string around his neck, but had not
used it in many, many years. He came regularly one evening in each week
to make his confession and to have a little chat with me. As the summer
progressed I wondered more and more at this strange new acquaintance of
mine; this rough looking tramp with the manners of a gentleman and the
speech, except for a few lapses in the vernacular of the road, of a man
of considerable education. The oddest thing of all was the feeling I had
that somewhere, at some time, Jim and I had met before. Little tricks of
voice and expression would seem strangely familiar.
"The summer gradually faded into autumn, and one evening in late
September when I stood at the gate to say good-night to my tramp, he
remarked sadly:
"'This is good-by as well as good-night, Father. I have given up my
work here and am off early in the morning.'
"'Not the road again!' I cried, and the next second would have given
anything to recall the thoughtless words. A pained look crossed Jim's
face, but he answered quietly:
"'No, Father, not the road. Never again shall I return to that life. I
have saved my wages this summer and am going back into the world to
begin life all over again. This time, with God's help, I shall not make
such a muddle of it as I did before.'
"The next day he was gone, and many a night as I sat over my study-fire
reading or trying to work up my sermon for Sunday, my thoughts would
stray from the subject in hand and wander out into the world in search
of my friend the tramp. I would listen to the wintry blasts whistling
down my chimney and wonder where Jim was, and wonder still more at his
complete silence. Surely he might let me know if all were well with him.
Had he persevered? Or had he, perhaps, lapsed into his former ways, and
was he, even now, tramping the highways and byways?
"Winter passed and spring came; still no news of Jim. Another summer,
another fall, another winter. Silence, absolute silence on the part of
my tramp. Then, one evening in May, exactly two years from the day when
I first met him, Jim stood before me once again. I recognized him by the
missing right hand and the scar on the temple. Aside from those two
points and the old merry twinkle in his eye he bore absolutely no
resemblance to my tramp of two years ago. The face was smooth shaven,
the bloat, caused by years of drinking, had all disappeared, and he
looked at least ten years younger than my former friend. His ragged
tramp's garb had been replaced by neat garments such as a fairly
prosperous business man might wear. His whole appearance seemed to
indicate that Jim had done well in the world to which he had returned.
Sitting in the garden, he told me all about it.
"Yes, he had done well. It had been hard at first, oh! very hard. There
had been a time when, his savings all gone and no employment in sight,
he had faced actual starvation. But the darkest hour comes before dawn,
and that had been Jim's darkest hour. From then on things began to mend.
He had obtained a good situation and was happy in it. He had not
written because for long, for so very long, he had no news but bad news
to send. There was nothing but ill-luck and misfortune to report, and he
waited from day to day hoping things would brighten. Then, when the
unexpected stroke of good luck came, he decided to wait yet a little
longer until he could bring me the good news in person.
"All the time he was talking I watched his face carefully. That
puzzling, baffling resemblance to some one whom I had known was stronger
than ever since the beard which concealed so much of his face had been
removed. I became more and more convinced that we had met before, but
when and where? I racked my memory, but the name, the personality I
wanted, eluded my grasp. Something of my thoughts must have shown in my
face, for when Jim finished his narrative he threw back his head,
laughing merrily at my very evident perplexity.
"'It is really too bad to keep you guessing any longer, Father,' he
said. 'Let me help you to remember when and where we met before. Listen
and I will tell you a little story.
"'It is Commencement day at a certain large college in a certain city
which we need not name. The graduating class have met together for the
last time in their own particular class-room. The saintly, white-haired
priest who has watched their progress step by step from the day they
first entered college stands before them. He speaks words to them which
brings tears to those young eyes, accustomed, as a rule, to looking only
on the merry side of life. He speaks words of true affection, of gentle
admonition and fatherly advice. He gives to each youth a tiny silver
medal of our Blessed Mother, and exacts from each one a promise that he
will faithfully carry that little medal until the day of his death.'
"As Jim spoke he took from an inner pocket a small medal of our Lady and
laid it on the palm of his hand. I drew forth my rosary, and there,
beside the crucifix, hung a medal the counterpart of Jim's. He smiled as
he continued:
"'I see you remember now, Father, but listen just a little longer for my
story is not finished. From that class-room those lads went forth into
the busy world of men and of affairs. They went their separate ways,
each one to fill that position in life to which he felt himself called,
most of them fired by ambition and confident of success.
"'One of those young men left the college that night with his heart as
buoyant and hopeful as any of his companions. Almost from the first,
however, things seemed to go wrong with him. He was an orphan, father
and mother having died a few years before. Perhaps if either parent had
been at hand to warn him of the dangers into which he was drifting, his
life might have been different. Perhaps, even if some one had warned
him, the warning would have passed unheeded. He tried law for a time and
did not like it; tried business and gave that up; drifted from one thing
to another, always drifting lower, lower, until at last he found himself
an outcast and a wanderer. For some years he lived the life of a
vagrant. If at times a longing to return to better ways, a longing for
all that might have been, stirred faintly within him, the feeling was
quickly drowned by recourse to the one thing to which he remained
faithful, the enemy that had brought about his ruin, drink.
"'During his wanderings he picked up odd jobs here and there, and one
day he is taken on by the boss of the stone-crusher over there in those
quarries of yours. They were badly in need of some one to stoke the
engine, and even a rough looking tramp was welcome. That same day there
comes to the place a certain priest who is searching for one of the
stray sheep from his own fold. The tramp recognizes the priest at once,
and the sight of that familiar face brings back the old, happy days of
his innocent boyhood. The priest commences to speak; he pleads, he
reasons with the boss of the stone-crusher. In spirit the tramp is once
more back in the college chapel listening to the saintly old man who had
been his guide and confidant in youth, and who had long since passed to
his reward. The vague, discontented longing for better things rises up
in full strength. After all, why not? The look on the priest's face as
he turns away decides him. That look of bitter disappointment, of real
grief, on the face of his old college friend is more than the tramp can
stand. He speaks, the priest turns to him, and--well, the rest of the
story you know for yourself, Father. That is, the rest as far as any
mortal can relate it. The end is not yet, but I trust that end will be
one which will satisfy even you.'"
Silence reigned for several moments, the fragrant silence of a warm May
night. And then:
"I am sure it will, I am sure it will," mused Father Anthony, smiling
confidently. "I have no fear as to what the end will be for Jim, my
one-armed tramp."
"But the other man, Father, the boss of the stone-crusher? What has
become of him?"
"Oh! that little game of hide and seek is still going on, but I have not
lost hope even yet. God's mills grind slowly and we must abide His own
good time, His own good time."
"HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY."
"_Magnificat anima mea Dominum._" The exquisite voice rose and fell
daintily on the incense-laden air.
"_Et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo,_" responded the chorus
in triumphant harmony.
It was a Sunday evening in early June and the hour for Vesper service at
Saint Zita's convent. Reverend Mother mounted the staircase leading to
the chapel, then paused, with her hand upon the door, to listen as the
wonderful soprano again took up the refrain:
"_Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suae._"
"Poor child, poor child," whispered Reverend Mother, opening the door
and gliding noiselessly to her stall, where she knelt with bowed head
and prayed as she had never prayed before; prayed in fear and trembling
for the future of the girl whose voice had earned for her the title of
"the nightingale of Saint Zita's."
Reverend Mother had always dreaded the day when she must part with this
dearly loved child who had been entrusted to her care some ten years
before. A gentleman had come to Saint Zita's bringing with him his
little daughter of six. A man of grave, even stern aspect, there was yet
a look in his eyes which filled the nun's heart with a great pity; it
was the look of one who had suffered deeply and in silence. He was a man
of few words and his errand was quickly explained. He was obliged to be
absent from home the greater part of the time and could not attend to
the education of his little girl as he would like to do. His wife was
not of our faith and was also too busily occupied to look after the
child. He did not mention that her occupation was that of society
butterfly, who sacrificed homelife, husband and child in the pursuit of
pleasure. Would Reverend Mother kindly undertake the charge of his
little Nita's education, spiritual as well as intellectual? Would she be
to the child what father and mother ought to be and could not?
Reverend Mother had gladly undertaken the task, and since then Nita had
never been separated from her even for a day. During the vacations, when
other pupils scattered far and wide to their various homes, Nita had
remained at the convent, roaming at will through the deserted
class-room and beautiful grounds. She was the pet and darling of the
entire community. In the long summer afternoons when the nuns carried
their sewing out to the orchard behind the house, or to the pine grove
on the hill, where one could obtain such a lovely view of the river,
Nita would flit about amongst them like a veritable woodland fairy. Her
snatches of song and merry laughter made sylvan echoes ring and brought
smiles to the faces of the simple women who watched her with loving
sympathetic glances.
Many a time, especially of late, had Reverend Mother looked at her with
anxious foreboding in her eyes. What would the future hold for this
child of hers, endowed as she was with singular beauty and a wonderful
voice? She was a docile child, sunny and sweet-tempered, and that very
pliancy of nature was what caused the nun many a moment of uneasiness.
What would become of her once she had left the shelter of her convent
home and was exposed to the influence of the light-hearted, merry,
soulless mother from whom she had inherited her beauty; the mother whose
only god was pleasure, whose one ambition was to be the best dressed,
the most popular, the most envied woman in her set. The only hope lay in
keeping Nita at the convent as long as possible, or at least until her
character had developed sufficiently to enable her to enter her mother's
world and hold her own against it. Still, Reverend Mother dreaded the
day when she must part with her child, and now that the parting had come
so unexpectedly, so much sooner than she had anticipated, it was doubly
hard to bear.
The nun knelt in the chapel that June evening and prayed with all her
heart, not only for the future of the girl whose voice filled the air
with such exquisite melody, but also for help to break to that girl as
gently as possible the sad news awaiting her. Word had just arrived that
her father lay dangerously ill and Nita must hasten to his bedside if
she wished to see him once more in this world. The carriage was waiting
and Nita must go at once.
The Benediction over and the lights extinguished, all save the tiny
radiance of the Sanctuary lamp, with a final appealing glance towards
the Tabernacle door, Reverend Mother left the chapel, descended to her
office, where she was accustomed to interview the pupils each in turn,
and summoned Nita to her presence.
A little later she stood at the foot of the convent steps and watched
the carriage drive away with a weeping, forlorn little figure huddled in
one corner, while the good lay-sister who accompanied her vainly essayed
words of cheer and consolation. She watched with tear-dimmed eyes as the
carriage rolled rapidly down the avenue and out through the gate, then
entered the house and repaired at once to her refuge in all trials and
afflictions that might beset her way, the convent chapel. There, with
her eyes on the little golden door behind which the dearest and best of
Comforters is always waiting for the sorrowful, the sin-laden, the
weary-hearted, to come to Him, she found consolation and peace. Her
child was in the Lord's hands and surely in those hands she would be
safe.
Many times have the June roses blossomed and fallen since the night on
which Reverend Mother stood in the convent doorway and watched the
departure of the carriage which was bearing her child away from her out
into the world of suffering and sin. Once more, the June sunshine is
flooding the land and the air is heavy with the odor of June blossoms.
In a small town in the south of France, a young woman, gowned in deepest
mourning, sits by her own casement and gazes gloomily, despairingly, out
into the gathering twilight. On a table at her side is a small pile of
money which she has counted over and over again in the vain hope that
she may have made a mistake and that, perhaps, after all, the amount is
not quite so small as she has made it out to be. That little pile of
money represents her entire worldly wealth, and when it is gone what is
to become of her? Work? She glances at the soft, delicate hands resting
idly in her lap. Their whiteness is dazzling as compared with the black
of her gown, and she smiles rather bitterly. What work could hands like
those perform? They are beautiful certainly, but useless, absolutely
useless, just as she herself is useless. There is not one thing by which
she can earn her daily bread, and earn it she must or starve. To what a
pass has she come; she, who at one time had wealth at her command and
the world at her feet.
As she sits there, broken in spirit, broken in health, a middle-aged
woman in appearance, while in years not much beyond her first youth,
she recalls those triumphs of her past. Her success had been marvelous
though short-lived. Her mind wanders back to the days when she was the
pet and idol of musical Europe. The mere announcement that she was to
sing would pack the largest opera house to the very doors. Ah! those
days of triumph, when she had passed from one success to another, when
the mighty ones of the earth were pleased to do her honor, when the
incense of praise and flattery was burned day and night upon the shrine
of her greatness. Her mother was with her then, the beautiful, fairylike
little mother for whom her love had been almost worship. Her voice had
been with her, too, that voice at which two continents had marveled.
Both are gone now, the beautiful mother, the wonderful voice; gone, gone
forever, and she is alone in the world, alone and poor and friendless.
She recalls the first and only time when she appeared in public in
America, her native land. She did not want to sing that night, for her
mother, who had been slightly ailing for some time, seemed very much
worse. She had decided not to appear at all, but had finally yielded to
the mother's entreaties and driven to the opera house. What an ovation
she had received that night! She could see it all again: the lights, the
flowers, the music, the vast audience simply frantic with delight at her
performance. At the close she had been recalled again and again, and
those enthusiastic plaudits still rang in her ears. How little she had
dreamed as she smiled and bowed her thanks, and how little those who
watched her had dreamed that never again was that wonderful voice to be
heard by mortal ears, that voice which had stirred millions of hearts
and made its owner one of the foremost singers of her day.
She had driven home from that scene of triumph to find that her mother's
condition had become alarmingly worse in the few hours of her absence,
and before morning she had stood beside a deathbed the recollection of
which makes her shudder even now. The poor, pretty butterfly, her short
summer over, fought frantically but vainly against the annihilation
which was coming upon her. The memory of her early training at Saint
Zita's, the memory too of that other death-scene she had witnessed when
her father had passed away so calmly, so peacefully, with his eyes upon
the crucifix and the words of God's minister ringing in his ears, came
to the girl and she had begged to be allowed to send for a priest. Her
mother had never professed any belief, but it seemed terrible to Nita to
have her die without even a prayer to help her in that last awful
moment. Entreaties were of no avail. The idea of a priest, of religion,
of even a final prayer, was laughed to scorn. Besides, she was not
dying. She was young yet and was going to have many more years of
sunshine and pleasure before sinking into the oblivion of the cold, dark
grave. No, no, let them not speak of death, that fearsome, awful
spectre. She was going to live. Take it away, take it away, that
dreadful thing standing there beside her, laying its icy hand upon her
forehead. Its touch was turning her to stone. She was cold, and it was
growing so dark she could see nothing. Why did they not bring lights;
why did they not take away the dreadful thing beside her bed?
The final struggle was fearful to behold, and even now Nita is haunted
day and night by the scene. Even now, there are times when she springs
from her sleep with a cry of terror, thinking she is again assisting at
the departure of that poor soul who fought so frantically against the
power of death.
With her mother, a large part of their income died also, but she still
had sufficient money to supply her wants. Her voice, too, was a fortune
in itself; managers all over the country were eager and anxious to sign
a contract on any terms she chose to dictate. The shock of her mother's
death so unnerved her that she decided to spend a year in rest and
travel before returning to the stage. She had come abroad again, but had
scarcely reached London when she was attacked by a severe throat
trouble. The most eminent physicians were consulted, various treatments
tried, but the disease would not yield. The south of France was
recommended, and hither she had come in a last vain effort to save the
voice which had charmed all Europe. At first she was incredulous. Then,
she hoped against hope that time would prove them wrong and that the
lost voice would return some day even better and richer than it was
before. Now, all her hopes are gone, all her delusions swept away. She
knows she will never sing again, and here in her hand she holds the
cable message which forms the last in this series of dire misfortunes
which have come upon her within the last two years. It is the message
which tells her that her investments have failed and that she is
penniless.
She sits by her window in the June twilight, the numbness of despair
taking possession of her. On the table lies all the money she owns in
the world. It is sufficient to cover the few bills she owes, the salary
of the woman who has traveled with her as maid and companion, and pay
her passage back to her native land. But what then? America once
reached, where can she go, to whom can she turn? The distant relatives,
the friends who crowded around her in her days of success, anxiously
seeking a smile, a word, a token of her favor, how will they receive her
if she goes to them a pauper, a dependent upon their charity? There is
no one to whom she can turn, no place to which she can go, and as the
twilight deepens a heavier blackness settles upon the soul of the girl.
Presently the sound of music breaks in on the evening stillness, the
sound of an organ responding to the touch of skilled fingers and blended
with it the tones of women's voices. The nuns in a neighboring convent
are chanting the evening office. The sound recalls the chapel at Saint
Zita's, the orchard, the nuns, dear kind Reverend Mother. What peaceful,
happy hours those were? Has she ever known real happiness since she
quitted the quiet convent home of her childhood? Even in the days of her
greatest triumphs, was there not always something she could not attain,
the little bit more which was always wanting? But at Saint Zita's, how
different, oh! how different! Happiness such as the world could not
dream of ruled within its walls. She wonders what they are doing now,
the dear nuns and Reverend Mother. They, too, are probably in the chapel
reciting the office; some of them thinking of her perhaps. What would
they say if they knew how false she has proven to all their teachings,
how careless she has grown in the practice of that religion which is
dearer to them than life itself?
A sentence in the last letter she received from Reverend Mother comes
now to her mind. The letter reached her years before and has never been
answered. The words are these:
"Dear child, you are successful and happy now, with the world at your
feet, but if the day ever comes when all these things fall away from you
and you stand in need of a true friend or of any assistance we can
render, remember Saint Zita's is still your home and your old mother's
heart is sick with longing for a sight of her child. Worldly joys must
vanish, worldly hopes decay, but Saint Zita's and Reverend Mother will
be here waiting for you."
How she longs for the peace and quiet of the old home and the comforting
touch of Reverend Mother's kind arms about her! What is it that the nuns
are singing! The "Magnificat." She listens in silence for a few moments,
then, a strange smile curving her lips, she recites in unison with the
choir:
"_Deposuit potentes de sede._ Yea, Lord, Thou hast indeed put down the
mighty."
It is not until after the voices are stilled, long after the world is
wrapped in slumber, that the girl turns from her open window and gathers
together the small store of money on the table beside her, repeating to
herself the while, slowly, half absently:
"I wonder; I wonder."
* * * * *
Another year has rolled around and again the June roses in the garden
at Saint Zita's fill the summer air with their heavy fragrance. The
convent door opens and Reverend Mother steps out into the portico
accompanied by a caller, one of the "old girls" come back to pay a
fleeting visit to the home of her childhood. The nun has changed but
little with the passing of the years, but those who love her best note
with anxious eyes the slight stoop of the shoulders and feebleness of
gait.
The visitor glances idly at a lay-sister who is busily engaged sweeping
the long flight of stone steps leading from the portico to the driveway
below. Her glance passes over the insignificant figure of the
lay-sister, and, looking across to the pine grove on the hill, she
speaks to Reverend Mother.
"Do you know, Mother, every time I stand here and look at those trees I
am reminded of Nita, 'the nightingale of Saint Zita's,' as we used to
call her. That grove was ever her favorite resort and even the odor of
pines makes me think of her. I wish I knew what had become of her. I
witnessed her performance the only time she sang here in America, and
truly, it was wonderful. Then she disappeared completely from the face
of the earth, as completely as if the ground had opened and swallowed
her. Rumors came of her travels in England and the south of France and
after that no news of her could be obtained. Occasionally, my dear
Mother," and the visitor smiled knowingly; "occasionally I have fancied
that you knew her whereabouts and could tell us of her."
"You are right, dear child, I could tell you, but I may not."
"At least, Mother, tell me this: She is well and happy?"
"She is well, indeed, and I think I may safely say happier than she has
ever been before."
"Thank you, Mother," and the visitor descends the steps and is gone.
"Sister Gabrielle," calls Reverend Mother gently.
The lay-sister approaches, her broom still in her hand.
"You heard our conversation, Sister?"
"Yes, my Mother."
"I spoke truly, did I not, dearest child?" and the old eyes peer
anxiously into the depths of the younger and smiling eyes raised to meet
her gaze.
"You spoke truly, my Mother. Never before have I known what real peace
and real happiness were. Never, did I dream that life on earth could be
as mine is, so happy that it seems to me a little foretaste of the joy
the angels must know in heaven. _Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit
humiles._"