She made no response, but stood, with her profile toward him, looking into the sunset.
"Won't you tell me?" he asked again, his tone more intimate than before.
"Ah, why should I?" And then, with a sudden veering: "After all, there is little to tell. I was born in Paris of poor—but Irish—parents." She
smiled as she spoke. "My mother was a great singer, whose name I will not call. She married my father; left him and me. I do not remember her. Since her death my father has been a spent man. We have wandered from place to place. When he found work I was sent to some convent near by. The Sisters have taught me. For three months I studied with Barili. I have sung in the churches. Finally, Mr. McDermott, on the next plantation, met us in New York, recommended my father for this work, and we came here."
She turned from him as she ended the telling. "What shall I sing?" she asked.
"'The Serenade.'"
"Schubert's?"
"There is but one."
"It is difficult without the accompaniments but I will try:
"'All the stars keep watch in heaven
While I sing to thee,
And the night for love was given—
Darling, come to me—
Darling, come to me!'"