She was listening intently to the sounds of an
organ that came pealing forth into the dusk from within the enormous
church before whose doors she was standing.
Louder, fuller swelled the majestic cords, and then--Nina strained her
ears to listen--and then the sweetest, tenderest voice imaginable
seemed to be singing to her of all the most beautiful things of which
she had ever dreamed. It drew her toward it by the influence of its
plaintiveness; and first one step and then another she took in its
direction until she was within the huge doors, and found herself
standing upon a white marble floor, with wonderful paintings on the
lofty ceiling above her head, and a sense of delicious warmth all about
her. But, alas! where was the singer? The thrilling notes were still
falling upon her ear with caressing sweetness; but they seemed to come
from beyond,--from far beyond.
Before her she saw more doors. Perhaps if she slipped through these
she might come in sight of the owner of the voice.
"It is the Santa Maria," murmured Nina to her heart. "And she is
singing to the Bambinetto,--to the Santissimo Bambino. Ah, yes, it
must be the Santa Maria, for who else could have a voice like that,--so
sweet and soft, yet so heavenly clear and pure?"
No one she had ever heard could sing like that. Not Luisa who sang for
pennies on the street, nor Guilia, nor Edwiga, nor yet Filomena
herself, who was so proud of her voice and who carolled lustily all day
long.
Pages:
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95