What should she do? Half an hour ago life lay so clear and plain
before her; the line of happy duties, simple pleasures, was so
straight, leading from the cottage door to that quiet spot in the old
burying-ground where she and Rejoice would one day rest side by side.
They had taught Melody what they could. She had books in raised print,
sent regularly from the institution where she had learned to read and
write. She was happy; no child could ever have been happier, Miss
Vesta thought, if she had had three pairs of eyes. She was the heart
of the village, its pride, its wonder. They had looked forward to a
life of simple usefulness and kindliness for her, tending the sick
with that marvellous skill which seemed a special gift from Heaven;
cheering, comforting, delighting old and young, by the magic of her
voice and the gentle spell of her looks and ways. A quiet life, a
simple, humdrum life, it might be: they had never thought of that. But
now, what picture was this that the stranger had conjured up?

As in a glass, Miss Vesta seemed to see the whole thing. Melody a
woman, a great singer, courted, caressed, living like a queen, with
everything rich and beautiful about her; jewels in her shining hair,
splendid dresses, furs and laces, such as even elderly country women
love to dream about sometimes. She saw this; and she saw something
else besides. The walls of the little room within seemed to part, to
extend; it was no longer a tiny whitewashed closet, but stretched wide
and long, rose lofty and airy. There were couches, wheeled chairs,
great sunny windows, through which one looked out over lovely gardens;
there were pictures, the most beautiful in the world, for those dear
eyes to rest on; banks of flowers, costly ornaments, everything that
luxury could devise or heart desire. And on one of these splendid
couches (oh, she could move as she pleased from one to the other,
instead of lying always in the one narrow white bed!),--on one of them