"No, no, mama; you."
In her white slip of a nightdress, her coronet braids unwound and falling down each shoulder, even her slightness had waned. She was like Juliet who at fourteen had eyes of maid and martyr.
They crept into bed, grateful for darkness.
The flute had died out, leaving a silence that was plaintive.
"You all right, baby?"
"Yes, ma." And she snuggled down into the curve of her mother's arm. "Are you, mommy?"
"Yes, baby."
"Go to sleep, then."
"Good night, baby."
"Good night, mommy."