The mother's face grew rapt and white. I held her hands and watched her eyes. Suddenly she threw my hand off and knelt at Parepa's feet, close to the wooden trestles. She locked her fingers together, tears and sobs breaking forth. She prayed aloud that God would bless the angel singing for Annie. A patient smile settled about her lips, the light came back into her poor, dulled eyes, and she kissed her daughter's face with a love beyond all interpretation or human speech. I led her back to her seat as the last glorious notes of Parepa's voice rose triumphant over all earthly pain and sorrow. And I thought that no queen ever went to her grave with a greater ceremony than this young daughter of poverty and toil, committed to the care of the angels. That same night thousands listened to Parepa's matchless voice. Applause rose to the skies, and Parepa's own face was gloriously swept with emotion. I joined in the enthusiasm, but above the glitter and shimmering of jewels and dress, and the heavy odors of Easter flowers, the sea of smiling faces, and the murmur of voices, I could only behold by the dim light of a tenement window the singer's uplifted face, the wondering countenance of the poor on-lookers, and the mother's wide, startled, tearful eyes; I could only hear above the sleet on the roof and the storm outside Parepa's voice singing up to heaven: "Take, oh! take her to thy care!" THOSE EVENING BELLS THOMAS MOORE Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime. Those joyous hours are passed away; And many a heart that then was gay Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so 'twill be when I am gone; That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. GINEVRA SUSAN COOLIDGE So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head, Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without, As, slowly creeping, he went down the stair. Were they afraid that I should be afraid? I, who have died once and been laid in tomb? They need not. Little one, look not so pale. I am not raving. Ah! you never heard The story. Climb up there upon the bed: Sit close and listen. After this one day I shall not tell you stories any more.