"I should first have stated, of course," said the visitor, smiling quietly as with awkward self-recovery, "that I am the choir-master of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine."
Stillness followed, the stillness in which painful misunderstandings dissolve. The scene slowly changed, as when on the dark stage of a theater an invisible light is gradually turned, showing everything in its actual relation to everything else. In truth a shaft as of celestial light suddenly fell upon her doorway; a far-sent radiance rested on the head of her son; in her ears began to sound old words spoken ages ago to another mother on account of him she had borne. To her it was an annunciation.
Her first act was to place her hand on the head of the lad and bend it back until his eyes looked up into hers; his mother must be the first to congratulate him and to catch from his eyes their flash of delight as he realized all that this might mean: the fulfilment of life's dream for him.
Then she threw open the door.
"Will you come in?"
It was a marvelous welcome, a splendor of spiritual hospitality.
The musician took up straightway the purpose of his visit and stated it.
"Will you, then, send him to-morrow and let me try his voice?"
"Yes," she said as one who now must direct with firm responsible hand the helm of wayward genius, "I will send him."
"And if his voice should prove to be what is wanted," continued the music- master, though with delicate hesitancy, "would he be—free? Is there any other person whose consent—"