Storyteller.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 16, 15 July 1893, Page 13

Storyteller.

, “—~—, ——— A MINISTERING ANGEL. When Parepa was in London she was everywhere the people’s idol. The great opera-houses in all our cities and towns were thronged. Her young, rich, grand voice was beyond compare. Its glorious tones are remembered with an enthusiasm like that which greeted her when she sang. Her company played in London during the Easter holidays ten years ago, and I, as an old friend, claimed some of her leisure hours. We were friends in Italy, and Easter Sunday was to be spent with me. At 11 in the morning she sang at one of the large churches. I waited for her 1 , and at last we two were alone in my snug little room. At noon the sky was overcast and grey. Down came the snow, whitening the streets and roofs. The wind swept icy breaths from the water as it came up the river and rushed past the city spires and over the tall buildings, whirling round us the snow and storm. We had hurried home, shut and fastened our blinds, drawn close the curtains, and piled coal higher on the gl owing grate. W 6 had taken off our wraps, and now sat close to the cheery fire fox- a whole afternoon’s blessed enjoyment. Parepa said, “ Mary, this is perfect rest! We shall be quite alone for four hours.” “Yes ; four long" hours !” 1 implied. “ 116 rehearsals, no engagements. Nobody knows where you are. If the whole company died, they couldn’t let yoU know !” The snow' had now turned into slebt; a great chill fell over the whole city., We looked out of our windows; peepingthrough the shutters, an'd pitying the people as they rushed pasL A sharp rap on my door. John thi-ust in a note. “My dear Extend, — Caxx you come? Annie has gone. She Said you w r ould be sure to come to her funeral. She spoke of you to the last. She will be bulled at 4.” I laid the poor little blotted note ixxto Pax-epa’s hand. How' it stoxmed ! We looked into each other’s faces helplessly. I said: “Deal*, I must go, but you sit by the fire and x*est. I’ll be at home in two hours. And poox* Annie has gone !” “ Tell me about it, Max-y, for I am going with you,” she answered. She threw"'on her heavy cloak, wound hex* long white woollen scarf closely about her thi’oat, drew on her w'oollen gloves, and we set out together in the stoxm. Annie’s mother was a dressmaker, and sewed fox- me and my friends. She was left a widow when her little gill was five yeax-s old. Her husband was drowned off the coast, and out of blinding pain and loss and anguish, had grown a sort of idolatry for the delicate, beautiful child, whose bi’OWn eyes looked like the young husband’s. Eor fifteen years this - mother had loved and worked for Annie, her whole being going- out to bless hexone child. 1 had grown fond of them ; and in small ways, with books and flowers, outings, and simple pleasures, I had made myself dear to tlxem. The end of the delicate girl’s life had not seemed so near, though hex* doom had been hovering about hex- for years. I liad thought it all over as 1 took the Easter lillies from my window shelf, and wrapped them in thick papers and hid them out of the storm undei- my cloak. I knew thex*e would be no other flowers in their wretched room. How endless was the way to that East End house ! At last we reached tbe place. In the street stood the heax-se, known only to the poor. We climbed flight after flight of nax-row dax-k stairs to the small upper rooms. In the middle of the floor stood a stained coffin, lined with stiff s rattling cambric and cheap gauze, ; resting on uncovered trestles of wood. We each took the mother’s hand, and stood a moment with her, silent. All hope had gone out of hex- face.

: She shed?hqHears, blit a£ I '-Ml3 her cold felt a shudder go over her, but shejaeither spoke Uor sobbed; ■ , storm had made us laid,-, und * th~eT\ plain, hard-working 1 peopled sat, stiffly, against the walla. Some one gave us .chairs, and we sat close to the mother. A dreadful hush fell over the small room. I whispei*ed to the mother, and asked: “ Why did you wait so long to send forme? All this would have been different.” With a kind of stare she looked at me. “ I can’t remember why I didn’t send,” she said, her hand to her bead, and added “ I seemed to die, too, and forget, till they brought a coffin. Their I knew it all.” The undertaker came and bustled about. He looked at myself and Parepa, as if to say “ It’s time to go.” The wretched funeral service was over. Without a word Parepa rose, and walked to the bead of the coffin. Sire laid her white scarf on an empty chair, and threw her cloak back from her shoulders, where it fell in long, soft, black lines from her xroble figuro liko the dx-apexy of mourning.- She laid her soft, fail- hand on the cold forehead, passed it tenderly over the wasted delicate face, looked down on the dead girl a moment, and moved my flowers from the stained box to the thin Angers, then lifted rxp her bead, and with illumined eyes sang the glorious melody—• “ Angels, over bright and fair, Take, oh, take her to thy eare.” Her magnificent voice rose and fell in all its richness and power arid pity axxd beauly. She looked above tire dingy room and the.tired, faces 6f the men and women, the hard hands, and the struggling hearts. She thx*ew back her head, and sang till tire choirs of pax-adise must have paused to listen to the music of that day. She passed her hand caressingly over the girl’s soft, dark hair, and sang on—and on—-“ Take—oh, take her to thy care.” The mother’s face grew rapt and white. I held her hands, axxd watched hex* eyes. Suddenly she thx*ew my haxxds off and knelt at Parepa’s feet, close to the wooden trestles. She locked her flngex*s together, tears and sobs breaking forth. She px*ayed aloud that God woxxld bless the angel singing for Anxxie. A patiexxt smile settled about her lips, the light came back into her poor dulled eyes, and she kissed her daughter’s face with a love beyond all interpretation or human speech. I led hex* back to her seat as the last glorious xxotes of Pax-epa’s voice x*ose triumphant over all earthly pain and sorrow. Axxd I felt no qxieen ever went to hex- gx-ave with a greater ceremony than this young daughter of poverty and toil, committed to the care of the angels. In the following week thousands listened to Parepa’s matchless voice. Applause x*ose to the skies, axxd Parepa’s own face' was gloriouslyswept with emotion. I joixxed in the exxthusiasm ; but above tbe glimmer, and shimmering and jewels and dress, axxd the heavy odour of ’ flowers, the sea of smiling faces and the murmur . of voices, I could, only behold by the dim light of a tenement window the " sixxgex-’s xxplifted face, the woxxdex*ing countexxances of the poor onlookers, and the mother’s wide, startled, tearful eyes. I could only hear- above the ‘ sleet oxr the roof, and on the storm outside, Parepa’a voice singing up to heaven: “ Take, oh take her- to Thy care!”— London Exchange.