So Rose came up, after receiving the customary caution not to stay too long and avoid everything that might be unpleasant or exciting.

She stood for a moment in the doorway, hesitating.  Her face was almost as white as her linen gown, but her eyes were shining with strange fires.

“White Rose,” he said, wearily, “I have been through hell.”

“I know,” she answered, softly, drawing up a chair beside him.  “Aunt Francesca and I have wished that we might divide it with you and help you bear it.”

He stretched a trembling hand toward her and she took it in both her own.  They were soft and cool, and soothing.

“Thank you for wanting to share it,” he said.  “Thank you for coming, for playing—­for everything.”

“Either of us would have come whenever you wanted us, night or day.”

“Suppose it was night, and I’d wanted you to come and play to me.  Would you have come?”

“Why, yes.  Of course I would!”

“I didn’t know,” he stammered, “that there was so much kindness in the world.  I have been very lonely since—­”

Her eyes filled and she held his hand more closely.  “You won’t be lonely any more.  I’ll come whenever you want me, night or day, to play, to read—­or anything.  Only speak, and I’ll come.”

“How good you are!” he murmured, gratefully.  “No, please don’t let go of my hand.”  In some inexplicable fashion strength seemed to flow to him from her.

“I think you’ll be glad to know,” she said, “how sympathetic everybody has been.  Strangers stop us on the street to ask for you, and people telephone every day.  Down in the library, there’s a pile of letters that would take days to read, and many of them have foreign stamps.  It makes one feel warm around the heart, for it brings the ideal of human brotherhood so near.”

He sighed and his face looked haggard.  The brotherhood of man was among the things that did not concern him now.  The weariness of the ages was in every line of his body.

“I have been thinking,” he went on, after a little, “what a difference one little hour can make, a minute, even.  Once I had everything—­youth, health, strength, a happy home, love, a dear father, and every promise of success in my chosen career.  Now I’m old and broken; health, strength, and love have been taken away in an instant, my father is gone, and my career is only an empty memory.  I have no violin, and, if I had, what use would it be to me without—­why Rose, I haven’t even fingers to make the notes nor hands to hold it.”

Rose could bear no more.  She sprang to her feet with arms outstretched, all her love and longing swelling into infinite appeal.  “Oh Boy!” she cried, “take mine!  Take my hands, for always!”

For a tense instant they faced each other.  Her breast rose and fell with every quick breath; her eyes met his, then faltered, and the crimson of shame mantled her white face.