A crashing chord rolled out from a piano
behind the curtains and ceased abruptly.
"What does your mother sing?" she demanded, not raising her voice,
it seemed, and yet they heard her as plainly as when they had leaned
against her knee.
"She sings, 'My Heart's Own Heart,'" Miss Honey called back
defiantly.
"And it's printed on the song, 'To Madame Edith Holt!'" shrilled
Caroline.
The familiar prelude was played with a firm, elastic touch, the
opening chords struck, and a great shining voice, masterful, like a
golden trumpet, filled the room. Caroline sat dumb; Miss Honey,
instinctively humming the prelude, got up from her foot-stool and
followed the music, unconscious that she walked. She had been
privileged to hear more good singing in her eight years than most
people have in twenty-four, had Miss Honey, and she knew that this
was no ordinary occasion. She did not know she was listening to one
of the greatest voices her country had ever produced--perhaps in
time to be known for the head of them all--but the sensitive little
soul swelled in her and her childish jealousy was drowned deep in
that river of wonderful sound.
Higher and sweeter and higher yet climbed the melody; one last
triumphant leap, and it was over.
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