One evening when he had been under that roof for nearly three weeks she did not stop with the second or even the third song. Ballads and arias followed until she had sung steadily for more than an hour. Wondering, David stole from his room and sat with the other roomers on the stairs, listening raptly to the golden voice that floated up to them. And not once did it falter or lose its pure timbre.
Silence fell at last. The other roomers, sighing, went back to their rooms. David went down to the parlor.
The singer was still sitting before the piano, absent eyes fixed on the open sheet of music; a happy but half-incredulous smile was playing about her lips. It became a friendly welcoming smile when she saw him at the door.
"Did you like my little concert?"
"Like it!" He used a gesture to explain that she had set too big a task for his tongue.
Her cheeks made answer.
"Do you know," he asked abruptly, "that your voice is getting better and stronger all the time?"
"I think so," she said quietly.
"Don't you think that maybe your throat is getting well?"
"I think so. But I can't be sure. It's too soon to tell yet. And it's too good to be true."