Within, at one side of the room, a group of forty sisters, more or less, sat listening to the song. The room was spacious. Against its white walls hung various paintings by old masters. The further wall, facing the western windows, was partly covered by an enormous tapestry representing Esther and her handmaidens before King Ahasuerus. The king was on a throne, amid the splendors of his court. Now, at this hour, its colors were all aglow at the touch of the sinking sun. Between the three long windows stood growing plants in massive pots of Siena marble.

Across the room, facing the sisters, stood Madame Francesca; and, not far away, the accompanist with her harp.

The various members of the little audience were affected by the song in different ways and in different degree, according to temperament. Some, enraptured by her voice and art, leaned forward in Æsthetic joy. Others, with moister eyes and quicker breath, gave out their hearts to the deeper meaning of the song. Madame Drusilla, an older woman whose two young sons had fallen in the war, sat always, on these occasions, with head bent low, her face in her hands. But all the others kept their eyes upon the singer. For the personality of Madame Francesca—as she wished to be called since her retirement from the world—possessed in itself an irresistible charm. Now, standing in her light gray uniform, in the flood of golden light from the great windows, she seemed transfigured—a celestial being from another sphere.

The song itself was the outpouring of a mother's love. And it was rendered with a pathos, a beauty and a depth of feeling that stirred the heart of every listener. It seemed to the sisters a marvel of dramatic art that a woman, however great an artist, could so touch the hearts of others when not herself a mother. And they marveled that a woman whose physicians forbade excitement could so move an audience and not be overwhelmed herself by emotion.

The song ended. As the fingers of the harpist moved gently across the strings, in the last notes of the accompaniment, Madame Francesca stood for a moment with closed eyes. Her breathing and the color in her cheeks showed a degree of feeling which Sister Lucrezia, the physician, did not approve.

Then came a climax to the song—a climax far transcending any singer's art. In this short, somewhat solemn silence that followed the song, there appeared in one of the long windows that opened to the floor, a figure rarely seen within the convent walls. It was a man. And the man was neither workman, priest, grand duke or king. Neither was he old. Men visitors were rare, and the few that entered were usually middle aged or churchly. This visitor was young, hatless, his hair in disorder. He wore a checkered suit and leather leggings, and he was in no way ecclesiastical. His manner was eager,—somewhat excited, with eyes fixed earnestly on Sister Francesca. He paid no attention to the other sisters. If such a thing was possible he was ignorant of their presence. As for the sisters they were too surprised to speak, or move. They merely sat and stared.

Cyrus stepped within, slowly, as in a trance. Slowly he advanced toward Madame Francesca. She, as surprised as any of the others, regarded him in silence until he stopped before her. As they stood facing each other, the western light on both their faces, the spectators—including Ruth, now at the open window—began to marvel. Fear began to mingle with surprise, for many in the audience knew that famous beauties could be tormented by crazy lovers. But fear, in turn, gave way to wonder, for it proved a strange interview, never forgotten by those who saw it. No words were spoken. No words were needed. In the eyes that looked into his own Cyrus read their greeting as clearly as in an open book. And she, as clearly, looked deep into his heart—as she had looked into the heart of his father. Now in his responsive, eager face she saw the confirmation of his father's letters, that she had bequeathed to her child her own extraordinary faculty. It brought a sudden joy, this assurance of a perfect understanding. Each received, in full, the other's message. In the face of Cyrus—with his grandfather's drowsy eyes—she saw his happiness in this meeting. He was telling her in unspoken words of his childhood yearnings; how he had thought and dreamed of her from early boyhood; that he had prayed and hoped for this meeting. And now—here, had come the fulfillment of all his dreams, his hopes, his prayers! And he, as he fathomed to their secret depths the tragic but tender eyes, found love and a heart-expanding welcome.

The little audience, however, saw nothing but the outward, silent greetings. To them was not revealed the greater happiness, the imperishable bond.

But this silent meeting, with its overwhelming joy, was the prelude to the drama—its silent overture. The curtain had risen on the Diva's final triumph, the Immortal Opera with its happy ending.

To the amazement of the audience she drew the young man's face to hers and kissed him on either cheek. Then, overcome by emotion, as it seemed, her head fell slowly forward on his breast. Without his supporting arms she would have sunk to the floor. The sisters saw, and hastened to her side. Cyrus, with their help, carried the fainting figure to a nearby bench, where they laid her, with a cushion beneath her head. Sister Lucrezia, the physician, bent anxiously over the unconscious form. And so sudden was it all that her hearers could hardly believe her when at last she arose, and solemnly announced that the spirit of Madame Francesca had risen to another life.

She spoke in Italian but Cyrus knew its meaning. His head drooped and he stood motionless, crushed, as if his own spirit and that of the sleeping figure on the bench were still together.

It was the Diva's long sleep. The last notes of her enchanting voice had died away; the curtain was down, the orchestra gone, the lights out. The audience had vanished. No more in the empty house would be heard the clapping of hands, the cries of enthusiasm, the bravos and encores.

But there are memories that never die. And now, to those who looked upon the tranquil face, it seemed as if memories of conquest and of triumph—or of something higher—still lingered in her heart. For the face was more than peaceful. There was a smile upon the lips that bore witness to a perfect contentment beyond the touch of death.

Cyrus was recalled to himself by the voice of the Mother Superior, a tall, gray-haired, kind-faced woman. She approached him, and in a voice of sympathy addressed him, in Italian. He understood the meaning of the message; that she shared his grief, but the presence of men was forbidden; the rules were strict, and she begged him to go. He expressed his gratitude by a respectful inclination and a few words in English. Then he walked over to the silent figure. Upon her folded hands he laid one of his own and stood, for a moment, looking down upon the face. The rosy light from the western sky seemed to bring the flush of life to the Diva's cheeks. He knelt beside the bench. Reverently he touched his lips to the sleeper's forehead.

He arose and moved toward the terrace. Near the window he stopped, and to the watching sisters he bowed. In this obeisance he told his sorrow and his profound respect. Then he turned and went out as he came.

The Mother Superior, still apprehensive, asked Ruth to accompany him to the gates and make sure of his departure. But Cyrus did not walk toward the gates. He walked toward the spot where he and Ruth had met, then beyond among the trees. During this walk neither spoke. As Cyrus was obviously in deepest sorrow Ruth refrained from words. Absorbed in her own thoughts, she suddenly realized that she was approaching an unfamiliar object. This unfamiliar object, a thing about twenty feet in length and a little taller than a man, might pass for some unknown monster of the deep, or a minor whale. It seemed to be of iron with a trap-door in the side just large enough for a man to climb within. Its color was a dull gray.

"Look!" she exclaimed. "What on earth is that?"

"My flying machine. That is what I came in."

"You came in that?"

As she looked up at him he nodded, slowly, and made no other reply. The light was fading, but she could see that a change had come into his face since they stood together at the garden wall. This new expression showed a side of his character that she had forgotten. She now remembered that it was the same look that had come into his face when he vanquished the Tormentor in the Unitarian Church, years ago; when the good natured, easy going boy became, of a sudden, a reckless gladiator, the fearless defender who fights—and dies, if needed—for a sacred cause; his God, his Country, or—on that occasion—for his girl. It told deep emotions, of strength of purpose and the courage that has no respect for obstacles. Yet the slumbrous eyes were friendly as he said:

"Come, Ruth. Come home with me. I will make you happier than you will ever be in this place."

"No, Cyrus. No. I cannot."

"Do you mean that you will stay here all your life, from a sense of duty?"

"No—not wholly. Oh, why begin all over again? Please be reasonable, Drowsy. Please go away quietly."

His voice was gentle, but there was something in his face that recalled the boy of long ago, the boy who vanquished giants. Now it was the man—who might defy the gods. She was afraid:—of what, she knew not. But she took a backward step, a hand to her breast as if to calm a nervous heart. There was reason to be afraid. For then happened the unforgivable thing—doubly unforgivable when applied to a woman of sensibility and pride. He bent forward, to pick up something at her feet, she thought. Then, without warning, and all too sudden for escape, she felt an arm behind her knees, another across her back, and she was lifted from the ground. Before she could protest, or even struggle, he pushed open the door of the iron monster with his foot and passed her within as if she were a child. Gently he placed her on the floor and climbed in himself. She found herself sitting in front of him, her shoulders held firmly between his knees. He shut the little door at his side and all was dark. A button was pressed, one or two small levers manipulated, then a buzzing sound, a slight quivering of the car and through the port hole in front she saw that they were rising above the tops of the trees.

Then, high into the air.