"My work is done," sighed the Colonel. "I have only to wait now."
"Sometimes I think that all of Life is waiting," she went on, with a little catch in her voice, "and yet we never know what we were waiting for, unless--when all is done--"
A warm, friendly hand closed over hers. "Do not question too much, dear friend, for the God who ordained the beginning can safely be trusted with the end, as well as with all that lies between. Do you know," he continued, in a different tone, "a night like this always makes me think of those wonderful lines: "'The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand And the stars in her hair were seven.'"
Francesca's eyes filled and the stars swam before her, for she remembered the three white lilies the Colonel had put into the still hands of his boy's mother, just before the casket was closed. "I wonder," she breathed, "if--they--know."
"I wonder, too," he said.
The strains of the violin floated out upon the scented night, vibrant with love and longing, with passion and pain. Something had come into the music that was never there before, but only Rose knew it.
"Richard," said Francesca, suddenly, "if you should go first, and it should be as we hope and pray it may be--if people know each other there, and can speak and be understood, will you tell him that I am keeping the faith; that I have only been waiting since we parted?"
"Yes. And if it should be the other way, will you tell her that I, too, am waiting and keeping the faith, and that I have done well with our boy?"
"I will," she promised.
The last chord of violin and piano died into silence. Colonel Kent bent down and lifted Madame's hand to his lips, then they went in together.