“You see me here,” said Mrs. Mazetti, “unable even to rise from my chair. I could do nothing to stop you, if I wished. I do not wish, because I trust you; only I ask you to tell me a little.”
Ethel was more moved than she wished to be. She bent to kiss the soft white hair.
“I’d rather not, please!” she said.
“If you will remember, my little Ethel, that your mother always came to me, always told me what troubled her! I am very old. I have learned very much, seen very much. I could help you.”
“But you wouldn’t, grandmother. You wouldn’t like my—plan.”
“Then perhaps I could make a better one.”
Mrs. Mazetti felt the girl’s warm hands tremble, and saw her lip quiver. She waited, terribly anxious.
“You see,” said Ethel, “all I care about is being able to sing. Nobody believes that. No one understands except Ladislaw!”
“That is the young man?”
“Yes—Ladislaw Metz,” said Ethel, a little impatient at this interest in the least important part of her story. “He knows what it means to me.”