Her Audience of Two
"I must," she said, dismally. "My mother has said so. My mother sings—oh, nobody sings like my mother. And I want her—I want that I see her now."
Her lips trembled again, and an outburst seemed imminent. The nun lifted her quickly off the stool and stood up. She felt a sudden and strong interest in the forlorn baby.
"If your mother sings," she said, "her little girl must learn to play her accompaniments, of course. But you have worked enough to day. We will find Sister Patience and tell her you need amusement and fresh air, and ask her if she will not excuse you. If she consents, I will find some nice little girl for you to play with. To-morrow you will not be so homesick."
May Iverson's sharp eyes saw the two as they walked down the long corridor that led to the garden. She smiled to herself as she looked after them.
"I wondered how long it would take to bring those two together," she said to the class-mate who was with her; "the child of the greatest living contralto and the nun to whom music is the breath of life. I don't believe Sister Cecilia knows who the child is," she added, "for Ernestine came only last week. But some law has drawn them together, as I knew
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