ese
she might come in sight of the owner of the voice.

"It is the Santa Maria," murmured Nina to her heart. "And she is
singing to the Bambinetto,--to the Santissimo Bambino. Ah, yes, it
must be the Santa Maria, for who else could have a voice like that,--so
sweet and soft, yet so heavenly clear and pure?"

No one she had ever heard could sing like that. Not Luisa who sang for
pennies on the street, nor Guilia, nor Edwiga, nor yet Filomena
herself, who was so proud of her voice and who carolled lustily all day
long. No, no, it must be the Santa Maria.

Telemacho (Telemacho was a neighbor who played upon the harp and
sometimes let Nina go with him on his tramps, to sing and play upon her
fiddle, but oftener forced her to go alone,--they earned more so, he
said) had often told her about the Santa Maria and the Gesu Bambino.
Oh, it was a beautiful story, and--ah! ah! _of course_ it was the Santa
Maria. Was not this the Festa del Gesu Bambino? To be sure, it was,
and she had forgotten. No wonder the Santa Maria was singing to the
Bambinetto. To-morrow would be his birthday, his _festa_.

She would go to the blessed _Madre_ and say,--

"Ah, _Madre mia_, I heard thee singing to the Bambino, and it was so
sweet, _so_ sweet, I could not help but follow, I _love_ it so."

She stepped softly to the heavy doors, and with her whole weight
bracing against one, pushed it softly open and passed through. Ah! but
it was beautiful here.

Far, far above her head shone out dimly a hundred sparks of light like
twinkling stars. And everywhere hung garlands of green, sweet-smelling
garlands of green, that filled the place with their spicy fragrance.
And no one need grow weary here for lack of resting-place. Why, it was
quite filled with seats, soft-cushioned and comfortable. Nina stole
into one of the pews and sat down. She was very tired,--very, very
tired.

From her dim corner she peeped forth timidly, scarcely daring to raise
her eyes lest the vision of the radiant Madonna should burst upon her
view all too suddenly. But when at last she really gazed aloft to the
point from which the tremulous voice sprung, no glorified figure met
her view. She still heard the melting, thrilling tones, but, alas! the
blessed singer--the Santa Maria--was invisible. All she could
distinguish in the half-gloom of the place was the form of a man seated
in the lofty gallery overhead. He was sitting before some kind of
instrument, and