The poor, pretty butterfly, her short
summer over, fought frantically but vainly against the annihilation
which was coming upon her. The memory of her early training at Saint
Zita's, the memory too of that other death-scene she had witnessed when
her father had passed away so calmly, so peacefully, with his eyes upon
the crucifix and the words of God's minister ringing in his ears, came
to the girl and she had begged to be allowed to send for a priest. Her
mother had never professed any belief, but it seemed terrible to Nita to
have her die without even a prayer to help her in that last awful
moment. Entreaties were of no avail. The idea of a priest, of religion,
of even a final prayer, was laughed to scorn. Besides, she was not
dying. She was young yet and was going to have many more years of
sunshine and pleasure before sinking into the oblivion of the cold, dark
grave. No, no, let them not speak of death, that fearsome, awful
spectre. She was going to live. Take it away, take it away, that
dreadful thing standing there beside her, laying its icy hand upon her
forehead. Its touch was turning her to stone. She was cold, and it was
growing so dark she could see nothing. Why did they not bring lights;
why did they not take away the dreadful thing beside her bed?

The final struggle was fearful to behold, and even now Nita is haunted
day and night by the scene. Even now, there are times when she springs
from her sleep with a cry of terror, thinking she is again assisting at
the departure of that poor soul who fought so frantically against the
power of death.

With her mother, a large part of their income died also, but she still
had sufficient money to supply her wants. Her voice, too, was a fortune
in itself; managers all over the country were eager and anxious to sign
a contract on any terms she chose to dictate. The shock of her mother's
death so unnerved her that she decided to spend a year in rest and
travel before returning to the stage. She had come abroad again, but had
scarcely reached London when she was attacked by a severe throat
trouble. The most eminent physicians were consulted, various treatments
tried, but the disease would not yield. The south of France was
recommended, and hither she had come in a last vain effort to save the
voice which had charmed all Europe. At first she was incredulous. Then,
she hoped against hope that time would prove them wrong and that the
lost voice would return some day even