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.
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