Slowly, tremulously at first, pealed forth the notes:
“Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land,
Tell ol’ Pharaoh, let my people go.”
Scarcely was the verse begun when every person in the room started suddenly and listened with eager interest. As the air proceeded, some grew visibly pale, and not daring to breathe a syllable, looked horrified into each other’s faces. “Great heaven!” whispered Mr. Vance to his daughter, “do you not hear another voice beside Mrs. Briggs’?”
It was true, indeed. A weird contralto, veiled as it were, rising and falling upon every wave of the great soprano, and reaching the ear as from some strange distance. The singer sang on, her voice dropping sweet and low, the echo following it, and at the closing word, she fell back in a dead faint. Mr. Vance caught her in his arms.
“Mrs. Briggs has the soul of an artiste. She would make a perfect prima donna for the Grand Opera,” remarked one man to Molly.
“We are as surprised as anyone,” replied the young girl; “we never knew that Mrs. Briggs was musical until this evening. It is a delightful surprise.”
They carried her to the quiet, cool library away from the glaring lights and the excitement, and at her request left her there alone. Her thoughts were painful. Memory had returned in full save as to her name. She knit her brow in painful thought, finally leaning back among her cushions wearily, too puzzled for further thought. Presently a step paused beside her chair. She looked up into Livingston’s face.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked, gently taking in her slender wrist and counting the pulse-beats.
Instead of answering his question, she began abruptly: “Mr. Livingston, Reuel told me to trust you implicitly. Can you and will you tell me what has happened to me since last I sang the song I have sung here tonight? I try to recall the past, but all is confusion and mystery. It makes my head ache so to think.”
Livingston suddenly drew closer to her.