How
is it, indeed, that amidst a hundred tones that fret and jar
on our ears, there is one kind voice that has power to calm
and soothe us--amid a hundred alien forms, one hand to which we
cling for help and support? Graham did not say much, and yet,
as Madelon listened, her sobs grew less violent, her tears
ceased, she began to control herself again. "Listen," said
Graham, presently, "is not that singing that we hear? I think
it must be the nuns."
Madelon raised her head and held her breath to listen; and
sure enough, from within the convent came the sound of the
voices of the nuns at their evening prayers. She listened
breathlessly, a change came over her face, a light into her
eyes, and she tightened her grasp of Graham's hand. The
melancholy voices rising and falling in unison, seemed a
pathetic, melodious interpretation of the inarticulate
harmonies of the evening hour.
"I like that," said Madelon, relaxing her hold as they ceased
at last; "do you think they sing like that every evening,
Monsieur Horace?"
"I have no doubt of it," he answered, "it is their evening
service; see, that must be the chapel where the windows are
lighted up.
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