"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."