Page:Elizabeth Jordan--Tales of the cloister.djvu/111

 failed. Her lips trembled, and the soft eyes behind her glasses filled. The child looked at her, startled, uncomprehending. A phenomenon had occurred. It could not be—and yet it was. Sister Cecilia was troubled—was sad! Ernestine's little world took on a new coloring, strangely sombre. The Sister, the beautiful and kind Sister whom she so dearly loved, was unhappy, or ill, or tired. What to do for her? A sudden realization of the futility of the sympathy of a little girl settled upon Ernestine. At home, when she was tired, her mother sang to her. Here in this lonely convent, when her dolls were ill, she sang to them. Assuredly, singing was the remedy for those who were sad. Yet who should sing to the Sister Cecilia? The child meditated silently. Sister Cecilia, again mistress of herself, smilingly took Ernestine's hand and led her down the hall.

"Thank you, dear," she said, brightly. "It would be a great pleasure to hear your mother sing, but you know we do not go to concerts or operas."

The grasp of the small hand in her own suddenly tightened. Under the mass of yellow hair much thinking had been going on, and at the Sister's words the music-loving atom trotting at her side was conscious of an