Drawn together by sorrow, the two had been as dear to each other as
friends may be but seldom are. Though childless herself, Francesca had
some of the gifts of motherhood, and, at every step, she had aided and
counselled the Colonel in regard to his son, who had his mother's eyes
and bore his mother's name. Discerning the boy's talent, long before his
father suspected it, she had chosen the violin for him rather than the
piano, and had herself urged the Colonel to take him abroad for study
though the thought of separation caused her many a pang.
When the two sailed away, Francesca had found her heart strangely empty;
her busy hands strangely idle. But Life had taught her one great lesson,
and when one door of her heart was closed, she opened another, as
quickly as possible. So she sent for Rose, who was alone in the world,
and, for fifteen years, the two women had lived happily together.
As she sat there, thinking, some of her gay courage failed her. For the
moment her mask was off, and in the merciless sunlight, she looked old
and worn. Rose, looking at her with tender pity, marvelled at the
ignorance of man, in asking a frail little old lady to open and make
habitable, in less than a fortnight, a house of fifteen large rooms.
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