"Mirko, when I saw him last at Bournemouth, played to me a wonderful air; he said _Maman_ always came back to him in his dreams when he was ill--feverish, you know--and that she had taught it to him.

It talks of the woods where she is, and beautiful butterflies; there is a blue one for her, and a little white one for him.

He wrote out the score--it is so joyous--and I have it.

Will you send it to Vienna or Paris, to some great artist, and get it really arranged, and then when I play it we shall always be able to see _Maman_." And the moisture gathered again in Francis Markrute's eyes.
"Oh, my dear!" he said.

"Will you forgive me some day for my hardness, for my arrogance to you both?
I never knew, I never understood--until lately--what love could mean in a life.