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.
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