"I
wonder," she breathed, "if--they--know."
"I wonder, too," he said.
The strains of the violin floated out upon the scented night, vibrant
with love and longing, with passion and pain. Something had come into
the music that was never there before, but only Rose knew it.
"Richard," said Francesca, suddenly, "if you should go first, and it
should be as we hope and pray it may be--if people know each other
there, and can speak and be understood, will you tell him that I am
keeping the faith; that I have only been waiting since we parted?"
"Yes. And if it should be the other way, will you tell her that I, too,
am waiting and keeping the faith, and that I have done well with our
boy?"
"I will," she promised.
The last chord of violin and piano died into silence. Colonel Kent bent
down and lifted Madame's hand to his lips, then they went in together.
XII
AN ENCHANTED HOUR
The days dragged on so wearily that, to Rose, the hours seemed unending.
Allison came to the house frequently, but seldom spoke of his music; for
more than a week, he did not ask her to play at all.
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