The artist put his hand over his eyes: Julie’s boy! The child he had held in his arms! He heard again that sweet young voice, felt the soft lips pressed against his. “I love you, Uncle Martin.” Julie’s boy!
Angela came in with milk, bread, and cheese. Joseph thought she was the noblest-looking woman he had ever seen.
The artist sat tracing lines on paper. He must hold that vision of the past; it would soon vanish. Angela apologized for his silence.
“My husband is sketching you, he loves beautiful heads.”
Joseph sat willingly for the artist.
“It’s only for myself—and for you, if you will accept it.” Then pointing to a black band around the boy’s arm, he said with a touch of fear, “Are you in mourning?”
“Yes, for our dearest friend, Cardinal Cabello.”
“Cabello, a Cardinal? I am quite out of the world. I met him many years ago in America.”
“He helped my mother bring me up. I was like his own son. I had to grieve him terribly before his death; but I couldn’t help it. I must go soon again to Rome; there is a large sum of money coming to the Church from my grandmother. It was left to me conditionally—I have forfeited it.”
“Don’t look so sad,” said the artist. “I want the brightness of you. Tell me, have you sisters and brothers.”