“Yes, yes. He will bring us cheer. Then he will sing us a song.” Jeanne made a brave attempt at being merry.
When Swen was gone, Angelo motioned her to a place before the fire.
“We will not despair. ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast.’ The beautiful spring-time of life will bloom again.
“And see,” he exclaimed, enthusiastic as a boy, “we still have the fireplace! They could not take that. And there is always wood to be had. I found this on the beach. It was washed up high in the storm at a spot where children romp all summer long. Driftwood. Some from a broken ship and some from who knows where?
“See how it burns. The flame! The flame!” He was all but chanting now. “What colors there are! Can you see them? There is red and orange, pink, purple, blue. All like a miniature magic curtain.”
“Yes, like a magic curtain,” Jeanne murmured.
Then suddenly she awoke from the entrancing spell this remarkable youth had woven.
“Ah, yes, but those brave days will return for you!” she cried, springing to her feet and leaping away in a wild dance. “The magic curtain, it will bring them back to you!”
His fine eyes shone as he rose to admire the grace of her rhythmic dance. “Now you are dreaming.”
“Dreaming?” She stopped dead still. “Perhaps. But my dreams will come true. Allow me to congratulate you. You are about to become famous. You will write a grand opera.”