Page:Elizabeth Jordan--Tales of the cloister.djvu/145

 "Singing!" she cried, excitedly. "Singing! I can sing, too! See, it is time for my turn. And the house is packed. All these rows, black with people—and not one real friend! Oh, I'll sing—Oui, messieurs et dames. Je veux chanter. Que voulez vous? 'Les Vieux Messieurs?' 'A la Villette'?" Dr. Raymond pushed her back on the bed. There was an almost comical look of anxiety on his face.

"To sing those here!" he thought. "They might not understand—but the horror of it!" He glanced at the ascetically bare walls and the crucifix above the bed.

She lay silent for a moment, picking at the white spread that covered her. Her eyes opened and met those of the Superior, fixed on her with tenderest pity. A look of comprehension crept into her eyes.

"No," she said, hoarsely, "no, I won't sing. I am home. Nobody sings at home where things are quiet and restful—restful—and dark. It is only when the crowds are there, and the lights are burning—that one sings."

Dr. Raymond drew the Superior aside.

"There is one point, Reverend Mother, that I unfortunately overlooked when I asked you to take this poor woman into your kind hands," he said. "I forgot that she is not herself, and