And when the door had closed upon her, the doctor sat silently beside the pulseless brain of his deceased comrade and pondered long.
When Carmen entered the house, late that afternoon, she found the Beaubien in conversation with Professor Williams, of the University School of Music. That gentleman had learned through Hitt of the girl’s unusual voice, and had dropped in on his way home to ask that he might hear and test it. With only a smile for reply, Carmen tossed her books and hat upon the sofa and went directly to the piano, where she launched into the weird Indian lament which had produced such an astounding effect upon her chance visitors at the Elwin school that day long gone, and which had been running in her thought and seeking expression ever since her conversation with Doctor Morton a short while before.
For a full half hour she sang, lost in the harmony that poured from her soul. Father Waite entered, and quietly took a seat. She did not see him. Song after song, most of them the characteristic soft melodies of her people, and many her own simple improvisations, issued from the absorbed girl’s lips. The Beaubien rose and stole softly from the room. Father Waite sat with his head resting on his hand, striving to interpret the message which welled from the depths of his own being, where hidden, unused chords were vibrating in unison with those of this young girl.
Then, abruptly, the singing stopped, and Carmen turned and 39 faced her auditors. “There,” she said, with a happy sigh, “that just had to come out!”
Professor Williams rose and took her hand. “Who, may I ask, was your teacher?” he said, in a voice husky with emotion.
Carmen smiled up at him. “No human teacher,” she said gently.
A look of astonishment came into the man’s face. He turned to Father Waite inquiringly. The latter nodded his confirmation of the girl’s words.
“Well!” exclaimed the professor. “I wonder if you realize what you have got, Miss Carmen?”
“Yes,” she replied simply. “It’s a beautiful gift, isn’t it?”