The nurse was kind, but of a thickness of understanding, like all the rest, he said, and, with his sister there, he could dispense with her services for the moment.

He wished, when it grew dusk and they were to have their tea, to play his violin to only her, in the firelight; and there he drew forth divine sounds for more than an hour, tearing at Zara's heart-strings with the exquisite notes until her eyes grew wet.

And at last he began something that she did not know, and the weird, little figure moved as in a dance in the firelight, while he played this new air as one inspired, and then stopped suddenly with a crash of joyous chords.
"It is _Maman_ who has taught me that!" he whispered.

"When I was ill she came often and sang it to me, and when they would give me back my violin I found it at once, and now I am so happy.

It talks of the butterflies in the woods, which are where she lives, and there is a little white one which flies up beside her with her radiant blue wings.
And she has promised me that the music will take me to her, quite soon.
Oh, Cherisette!" "No, no," said Zara faintly.