It was a wretched, shivering little figure that he left behind him,--a small girl, with coal-black hair escaping from the folds of a bright kerchief that was tied about it; with immense dark eyes, that seemed to light up her poor, pinched face and make it beautiful; with tattered dress and torn shoes, and with something clutched tightly beneath her arm,--something that she tried unsuccessfully to shield from the weather beneath her wretched rag of a shawl, that was so insufficient to shield even her. 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. No, no, it must be the Santa Maria. Telemacho (Telemacho was a neighbor who played upon the harp and sometimes let Nina go with him on his tramps, to sing and play upon her fiddle, but oftener forced her to go alone,--they earned more so, he said) had often told her about the Santa Maria and the Gesu Bambino. Oh, it was a beautiful story, and--ah! ah! _of course_ it was the Santa Maria. Was not this the Festa del Gesu Bambino? To be sure, it was, and she had forgotten. No wonder the Santa Maria was singing to the Bambinetto. To-morrow would be his birthday, his _festa_. She would go to the blessed _Madre_ and say,-- "Ah, _Madre mia_, I heard thee singing to the Bambino, and it was so sweet, _so_ sweet, I could not help but follow, I _love_ it so." She stepped softly to the heavy doors, and with her whole weight bracing against one, pushed it softly open and passed through. Ah! but it was beautiful here.