She had thrown herself down at the piano and was singing gaily, ecstatically.
Approaching her in undisguised wonder at this new mood, I stood at her back and listened.

I do not suppose she had what is called a great voice, but the feeling back of it at this moment of reaction gave it a great quality.

The piece--some operatic aria--was sung in a way to thrill the soul.

Opening with a burst, it ended with low notes of an intense sweetness like sobs, not of grief, but happiness.

In their midst and while the tones sank deepest, a child's voice rose in the hall and we heard, uttered at the very door: "Mama busy; mama sing." With a cry she sprang from the piano and, bounding to the door, flung it open and caught her child in her arms.
"Darling! darling! my darling!" she exclaimed in a burst of mother-rapture, crushing the child to her breast and kissing it repeatedly.
Then she began to dance, holding the baby in her arms and humming a waltz.