Why not?"
Isabel came to the piano and took up the violin. "May I look at it?"
"Certainly."
She stroked the brown breasts curiously and twanged the strings as
though it were a banjo. "What make is it?"
"Cremona. Dad gave it to me for Christmas, a long time ago. It belonged
to an old man who died of a broken heart."
"What broke his heart?" queried Isabel, carelessly.
"One of his hands was hurt in some way, and he could play no more."
"Not much to die of," Isabel suggested, practically.
"Ah, but you don't know," he answered, shaking his head.
Francesca had leaned forward and was speaking to Colonel Kent in a low
tone. "I think that somewhere, in the House not Made with Hands, there
is a young and lovely mother who is very proud of her boy to-night."
The Colonel's fine face took on an unwonted tenderness. "I hope so. She
left me a sacred trust."
Francesca crossed the room, drew the young man's tall head down, and
kissed him. "Well done, dear foster-child. Your adopted mother, once
removed, is fully satisfied with you, and very much pleased with
herself, being, vicariously, the parent of a great artist.
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