The Press., 1894-02-22

I said, Dear, I must go; but you sit by the fire and rest. I'll be at home in two hours. And poor Annie has gonev' "Tell me about it, Mary, for am going with you," she answered.
 She drew on her heavy cloak, wound her long white wool scarf closely about her throat, drew on her woolen gloves, and we set out together in the wild east. | ern storm.
 Annie's mother was dressmaker and sewed for me and my friends. She was left widow when her one little girl was years old. Her husband was drowned off the Jersey coast, and out of blinding pain and loss and anguish had grown 6 sort of idolatry for the delicate, beautiful child whose brown eyes looked like the young husbands.
 For fifteen years this mother had loved and worked for Annie, her whole being going out to bless her one child. had grown fond of them; and in small ways, with books and flowers, outings and sim- pie pleasures, had made myself dear to them. The end of the delicate girls life had not seemed so near, though her doom had been lowering about her for years.
 had thought it all over as I took the Easter lilies from my window shelf, and wrapped them in thick papers and hid them out of the storm under my cloak. knew there would be no other flowers in their wretched room. How endless was the way to this eastside tenement house! No elevated roads, no rapid transits across the great city then, as there are now. At last we reached the place. On the street stood the canvas covered hearse, known only to the poor.
 We climbed flight after flight of mar row, dark stairs, to the small upper rooms. In the middle of the floor stood a stained coffin, lined with stiff rattling cambric and cheap gauge, resting on un- covered trestles of wood.
 We each took the mothers hand and stood a moment with her, silent. All hope had gone out of her face. She shed no tears, but as held her cold hand I felt shudder go over her, but she neith- CT spoke nor sobbed.
 The driving storm had made us late, and the plain, hard-working people sat stif1y against the walls. Some one gave us chairs, and we sat close to the mother. Then the minister came in, blunt, hard-looking man, self-sufficient and | formal. A woman said the undertaken ] brought him. Icier than the pitiless storm outside, yes, colder than ice were his words. He read a few verses from the Bible, and warned "the bereaved mother against rebellion at the divine de- crees." He made prayer and was gone.
 A dreadful hush fell over the small room. whispered to the mother and asked: "Why did you wait so long to send for me? All this would have been different.'
 With kind of stare, she looked at me.
 "I can't remember why didn't send," she said, her hand to her head, and ad- I ded: "I seemed to die, too, and forget, I till they brought coffin. Then 1 knew it all"
 The undertaken came and hustled about. He looked at myself and Parepa, as if to say: "Its time to go." The wretched funeral service was over.
 Without word Parepa rose and walk ed to the head of the. coffin. She laid her white scarf on an empty chair, threw her cloak back from her shoulders, where 1t fell in long, soft, black lines from her mo- ble figure like the drapery of mourning. She laid her soft, fair hand on the cold forehead, passed it tenderly over the wasted, delicate face, looked down at the dead girl moment and moved my Easter lilies from the stained box to the thin fingers, then lifted up her head, and with illumined eyes sang the glorious melody: 1 "Angels, ever bright and fair. l Take, oh, take her to thy care" Her magnificent voice rose and fell in all it's richness and power and pity and beauty! She locked above the dingy room and the tired faces of the men and women, the hard hands and the strug- gling hearts. She threw back her head and sang till the choirs of Paradise must have paused to listen to the Easter music of that day.
 She passed her hand caressingly over the girls soft, dark hair and sang on and on-"Take-oh, take her to thy care!'
 The mothers face grew rapt and white. I held her hands and watched her eyes. Suddenly she threw my hand off and knelt at Parepa's feet, close to the wooden tres ties. She locked her fingers together, tears and sobs breaking forth. She pray ed aloud that God would bless the angel singing for Annie. A patient smile set tied about her lips, the light came back into the poor dulled eyes, and she kissed her daughters face with a love beyond all interpretation or human speech. l led her back to her seat, as the last glorious notes of Parepa's voice rose triumphant over all earthly pain and sorrow. And thought that no queen ever went to her grave with greater ceremony than this young daughter of poverty and toll, committed to the care of all angels. That same night thousands listened to Parepa's matchless voice. Applause rose to the skies, and Parepas own face was gloriously swept with emotion. l joined in the enthusiasm, but above the glitter and shimmeriDg of jewels and dress, and the heavy odors of Easter flowers, the sea of smiling faces and the murmur of voices, could only behold by the dim light of tenement window the singers uplifted face, the wondering countenances of the poor on-lookers, and the mothers wide, startled, fearful eyes, I could only hear above the sleet on the roof and the storm outside Parepa's voice singing up ; to heaven: "Take, oh, take her to thy care!"
 Somebody in a loud whisper said in the seat beside me: Ibid you hear Parepa sing To! the Herald Angels in church this morning?"
 answered. to myself, rather than to her, II heard glorious voice beside the ) dead!"