For to-day she
sang with all that tender, unaffected sweetness, all that passionate
intensity that was part of her strange self.
"Diana," said his lordship gravely, "God has entrusted you with a
great and beneficent power; you have a rare and wonderful voice such
as might stir mankind to loftier thought and nobler ideal and thus
make the world a better place. Child, how will you acquit yourself of
this responsibility? Will you make the most of your great gift, using
it for the benefit of countless others, or let it atrophy and perish
unheard--?"
"Perish?" exclaimed Diana, opening her eyes very wide. "Old pal, what
do you mean?"
"I mean, Diana, that every one of the gifts that nature has lavished
upon us--speech, sight, thought, motion--would all become atrophied
and fail us utterly without use. The more we think and the more varied
our thoughts, the greater our intellect; he that would win a race must
exercise his muscles constantly, and this is especially true in regard
to singing. Have you no thought, no will to become a great singer,
Diana?"
"Yes," she answered softly, "I might ha' liked it once, but--not
now--because, you see, I've found a--better thing, old pal, and
nothing else matters!"
"Child," he questioned gently, "may I be privileged to know what this
better thing may be?"
"Yes--yes!" she answered, stooping to catch his hand in her sweet,
impulsive way and fondle it to her soft check.
"Love has come to us--Peregrine and me, he--knows at last, though I
think you had guessed already because you played our love into your
music, better--oh, better than I can ever tell it.
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