s, where it fell in long, soft, black lines from her noble
figure like the drapery of mourning. She laid her soft, fair hand on the
cold forehead, passed it tenderly over the wasted delicate face, looked
down at the dead girl a moment, and moved my Easter lilies from the
stained box to the thin fingers, then lifted up her head, and with
illumined eyes sang the glorious melody:

"Angels, ever bright and fair,
Take, oh! take her to thy care."

Her magnificent voice rose and fell in all its richness and power and
pity and beauty! She looked above the dingy room and the tired faces of
men and women, the hard hands and the struggling hearts. She threw back
her head and sang till the choirs of paradise must have paused to listen
to the Easter music of that day.

She passed her hand caressingly over the girl's soft dark hair, and sang
on--and on--"Take--oh! take her to thy care!"

The mother's face grew rapt and white. I held her hands and watched her
eyes. Suddenly she threw my hand off and knelt at Parepa's feet, close
to the wooden trestles. She locked her fingers together, tears and sobs
breaking forth. She prayed aloud that God would bless the angel singing
for Annie. A patient smile settled about her lips, the light came back
into her poor, dulled eyes, and she kissed her daughter's face with a
love beyond all interpretation or human speech. I led her back to her
seat as the last glorious notes of Parepa's voice rose triumphant over
all earthly pain and sorrow.

And I thought that no queen ever went to her grave with a greater
ceremony than this young daughter of poverty and toil, committed to the
care of the angels.

That same night thousands listened to Parepa's matchless voice. Applause
rose to the skies, and Parepa's own face was gloriously swept with
emotion. I joined in the enthusiasm, but above the glitter and
shimmering of jewels and dress, and the heavy odors of Easter flowers,
the sea of smiling faces, and the murmur of voices, I could only behold
by the dim light of a tenement window the singer's uplifted face, the
wondering countenance of the poor on-lookers, and the mother's wide,
startled, tearful eyes; I could only hear above the sleet on the roof
and the storm outside Parepa's voice singing up to heaven: "Take, oh!
take her to thy care!"

THOSE EVENING BELLS

THOMAS MOORE

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth