“Is it beautiful, my mother?”
“Always beautiful. The people sing from very joy. In the garden of the Prince, just in front of our house, there is a broken pillar covered with ivy. Beside it is a spring where flowers bloom even in summer heat. It was there we used to meet, your father and I.... Ah! I have never regretted it, never....”
Her girlish face was as sweet as a flower, but her eyes held memories too tragic for tears.
Then the door opened and a woman entered with a masterful air.
“I’m preparin’ yer potion, ma’am. The doctor said you was to take it at eight o’clock. Come on, sonny, it’s bedtime. Ma wants to get a good long night.”
The child looked imploringly at his mother. She shook her head.
“No, dearest, you must do what the lady tells you. Come, good-night.”
She held him in her arms, kissing him again and again. “You, too, will be an artist ... but you must be brave, my little son; for you have a hard, hard life before you.”
Then she let him go, but he turned at the door. “Good-night, Mother Lovely.”
“Good-night, darling one. Think of what I told you,—of home....”