From her dim corner she peeped forth timidly, scarcely daring to raise
her eyes lest the vision of the radiant Madonna should burst upon her
view all too suddenly. But when at last she really gazed aloft to the
point from which the tremulous voice sprung, no glorified figure met
her view. She still heard the melting, thrilling tones, but, alas! the
blessed singer--the Santa Maria--was invisible. All she could
distinguish in the half-gloom of the place was the form of a man seated
in the lofty gallery overhead. He was sitting before some kind of
instrument, and his fingers slipping over the keys were bringing forth
the most wonderful sounds. Ah, yes! Nina knew what music one could
make with one's fingers. Did not Telemacho play upon the harp? Did
not she herself accompany her own singing upon her fiddle,--her darling
fiddle, which she clasped lovingly beneath her arm and bravely tried to
shield from the weather? But surely, surely he could not be _playing_
that voice! Oh, no! it was the Santa Maria, and she was up in heaven
out of sight. It was only the sound of her singing that had come to
earth. Poor little Nina! She was so often disappointed that it was
not very hard to miss another joy. She must comfort herself by finding
a reason for it. If there was a reason, it was not so hard. Nina had
to think of a great many reasons.
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