The man feebly raised his head and said brokenly: "My boy, you are right; I had a sorrow. You are young, but you will understand."
No longer master and pupil, they were now friend and friend.
"I loved her—the best of all the world. But with the end only, came the peace which had been denied me in life. She loved my music and I played to her when she lay dying. She did not love me as I loved her—I was her friend, always; 'her dear, dear friend,' she used to say.
"But," and the voice grew stronger, "my arms were around her when the angels came—with my kisses on her lips she went to her grave—there are violets there—she loved them so—for thirty years I have watched them. Her heart has blossomed into them, and they come from her to me.
"She was so pure—so sweet—and her last word was for me. Such a little word! With her last strength, she put her arms around me, and drew my face down to hers—such a little word—it was a whisper—Sweetheart! She loved me then—I know she did. Oh, love, could I break the bonds of the grave!" He was silent for a moment. "Now you know—you understand. You will play it again."
The night was deepening toward the dawn. Once more Pedro took the violin—and played the melody, instinct with the old, old story of love and pain. The man's eyes were closed; he lay contentedly and peacefully as a child. As the boy played, the darkness waned, and as he finished, not with a broken chord, but with a minor that some way seemed completion, the first faint lines of light came into the eastern sky.
The master turned to the window again: "See, the day breaks." The sky grew gold and crimson, but a more celestial light seemed to live around the grey head, as if, in rifts of heaven, he saw her waiting for him.
He stretched his trembling hands to the east, and whispered: "Yes, I am coming! Coming! You love me then? Ah, yes! Beyond the sunset—the dawn; I am coming—coming—coming—such a little word—Sweetheart!"
A look of unspeakable rapture; it was transfiguration; then the deep blue eyes were closed upon the scenes of earth. The first ray of the sun shot into the little room and rested with loving touch upon the couch. The sobbing old housekeeper came toward them, but Pedro motioned her away.
He knelt at the bedside, his own face shining with something of that celestial glow, and man though he was, with quivering lips he kissed again and again the dear white face of the master.