he bicyclists were already wondering who she was. Her involuntary
levity annoyed her, and she forced a certain seriousness upon herself as
she climbed the steep spiral staircase.

"So you have found your way ... this is our choir," and she introduced
Evelyn to the five sisters, hurrying through their names in a low
whisper. "We don't sing the 'O Salutaris,' as there has been exposition.
We'll sing this hymn instead, and immediately after you'll sing the 'Ave
Maria'; it will take the place of the Litany."

Then the six pale voices began to wail out the hymn, wobbling and
fluctuating, the only steady voice being Sister Mary John's. Though
mortally afraid of the Latin syllables, Evelyn seconded Sister Mary
John's efforts, and the others, taking courage, sang better than usual.
Sister Mary John turned delighted from the organ, and, her eyes bright
with anticipation, said, "Now."

She played the introduction, Evelyn opened her music. The moment was one
of intense excitement among the five nuns. They had gathered together in
a group. The great singer who had saved their convent (had it not been
for her they would have been thrown back upon the world) was going to
sing. Evelyn knew what was passing in their minds, and was a little
nervous. She wished they would not look at her so, and she turned away
from them. Sister Mary John played the chord, and the voice began.

Owen often said that if Evelyn had two more notes in her voice she would
have ranked with the finest. She sang from the low A, and she could take
the high C. From B to B every note was clear and full, one as the other;
he delighted especially in the middle of her voice; for one whole
octave, and more than an octave, her voice was pure and sonorous and as
romantic as the finest 'cello. And the romance of her voice transpired
in the beautiful Beethoven-like phrase of Cherubini's "Ave Maria." It
was as if he had had her voice singing in his ear while he was writing,
when he placed the little grace notes on the last syllable of Maria. The
phrase rose, still remaining well within the medium of her voice, and
the same interval happened again as the voice swelled up on the word
"plena." In the beautiful classical melody her voice was like a 'cello
heard in the twilight. In the music itself there is neither belief nor
prayer, but a severe dignity of line, the romance of columns and
peristyle in the exaltation of a calm evening. Very gradually she poured
her voice into