Through the whole of one painful night she read to him from Mrs. Browning, only resting at short intervals when from very weariness he fell into a short and troubled slumber.
Her education had been sadly neglected, he discovered, but her eager facile mind was quick to comprehend. She had too, that inner sense of beauty which makes all art its own.
Her voice suited itself to the exquisite melody of the words as she read "A Denial." When it was finished she sat quite still, with a dreamy, far-away look in her eyes.
"Of what are you thinking, Madonna?" he asked tenderly.
"Of this—of what it must be for a man and woman who love each other to go away like this—because it isn't right for them to be together—never to see each other again." Then she read once more those four lines which have in them all the strength of loving and all the pain of parting.
"So farewell, thou whom I have met too late
To let thee come so near;
Be happy while men call thee great
And one beloved woman feels thee dear—"
Something tightened around his heart and he took her cold fingers into his own. "There's nothing in all the world that hurts like that, Madonna. God keep you from knowing about it, little girl."
An older woman would have taken warning from his words, but she did not. The caressing way in which he said "little girl" filled her soul with strange joy. She had a childish, unquestioning faith in him. Some day when he was better—but further than this her maiden thought refused to go. She simply waited, as a queen might wait for her coronation day.
He was planning to repay her kindness if it were in any way possible. He knew she would not take money from him, but there were other ways. Flowers—for he knew she loved them—the books that she liked best, and perhaps something for the unfortunates to whom she gave herself so unreservedly.
The winter was over, and April, warm with May's promise, came in through the open window. Even the sullen roar of the city streets could not drown the cheering song of two or three stray birds.