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.
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