"Do you know, Mother, every time I stand here and look at those trees I am reminded of Nita, 'the nightingale of Saint Zita's,' as we used to call her. That grove was ever her favorite resort and even the odor of pines makes me think of her. I wish I knew what had become of her. I witnessed her performance the only time she sang here in America, and truly, it was wonderful. Then she disappeared completely from the face of the earth, as completely as if the ground had opened and swallowed her. Rumors came of her travels in England and the south of France and after that no news of her could be obtained. Occasionally, my dear Mother," and the visitor smiled knowingly; "occasionally I have fancied that you knew her whereabouts and could tell us of her."
"You are right, dear child, I could tell you, but I may not."
"At least, Mother, tell me this: She is well and happy?"
"She is well, indeed, and I think I may safely say happier than she has ever been before."
"Thank you, Mother," and the visitor descends the steps and is gone.
"Sister Gabrielle," calls Reverend Mother gently.
The lay-sister approaches, her broom still in her hand.
"You heard our conversation, Sister?"
"Yes, my Mother."
"I spoke truly, did I not, dearest child?" and the old eyes peer anxiously into the depths of the younger and smiling eyes raised to meet her gaze.