Her uncle saw immediately that something terrible had happened.
"Zara, dear child," he said, and folded her in his arms with affectionate kindness, "tell me everything." She was past tears now, but her voice sounded strange with the tragedy in it.
"Mirko is dead, Uncle Francis," was all she said.

"He ran away from Bournemouth because Agatha, the Morleys' child, broke his violin.

He loved it, you know _Maman_ had given it to him.

He came in the night, all alone, ill with fever, to find his father, and he broke a blood vessel this morning, and died in my arms--there, in the poor lodging." Francis Markrute had drawn her to the sofa now, and stroked her hands.
He was deeply moved.
"My poor, dear child! My poor Zara!" he said.
Then, with most pathetic entreaty she went on, "Oh, Uncle Francis, can't you forgive poor Mimo, now?
_Maman_ is dead and Mirko is dead, and if you ever, some day, have a child yourself, you may know what this poor father is suffering.

Won't you help us?
He is foolish always--unpractical--and he is distracted with grief.