Tales of the Cloister
folds of her mother's gown. Outside, the storm, gaining hourly in fury, hurled great masses of snow against the window-panes. The short winter afternoon was coming to an end, and heavy shadows were already forming in the corners of the music-room. The great singer sang on, adapting her selections to the silent auditor before her; and the nun listened with no thought of time or place or person, with consciousness of nothing in the world except the marvellous art, the glorious voice of the woman, this idol of thousands, who had turned from them all for a little time to sing to her alone.
Madame Holstein whirled about on the piano-stool, and at the sound the nun started and looked as if she had been suddenly recalled to earth. She had not said one word, but her attitude was more eloquent than thunders of applause. Madame Holstein smiled as she looked in her startled eyes.
"Now," she said, with a fascinating abruptness, "I shall sing to you some operatic music—something from 'Le Prophète.' Fidès—I may say it to you frankly—is my best rôle. You do not know the story—no? Fidès is the mother of the prophet. In her part is the gamut of a mother's love—the tenderness, the triumph, the sorrow, the suffering, the forgive-
94
