red and hated strangers.

He felt he was talking to his mother with his bow. His mother who was in
heaven, with all the saints and angels. What could it be like up there?
It was perhaps a forest, such as Fontainebleau, only there were sure to
be numbers of birds which sang like the nightingales in the Borghese
Gardens--there would be no canaries! The sun always shone and _Maman_
would wear a beautiful dress of blue gauze with wings, and her lovely
hair, which was fair, not red like Cherisette's, would be all hanging
down. It surely was a very desirable place, and quite different from the
Neville Street lodging. Why could he not get there, out of the cold and
darkness? Cherisette had always taught him that God was so good and kind
to little boys who had crippled backs. He would ask God with all the
force of his music, to take him there to _Maman_.

The sound of the familiar air struck a chill note upon Mimo and Zara, as
they came up the stairs; it made them hasten their steps--they knew very
well what mood it meant with the child.

He was so far away, in his passionate dream-prayer, that he did not hear
them coming until they opened the door; and then he looked up, his
beautiful dark eyes all wet with tears which suddenly turned to joy when
he saw his sister.

"_Cherisette adoree_!" he cried, and was soon in her arms, soothed and
comforted and caressed. Oh, if he could always be with her, he really,
after all, would wish for no other heaven!

"We are going to have such a picnic!" Zara told him. "Papa and I have
brought a new tablecloth, and some pretty cups and saucers, and spoons,
and knives, and forks--and see! such buns! English buns for you to
toast, Mirko mio! You must be the little cook, while I lay the table."

And the child clapped his hands with glee and helped to take the papers
off; he stroked the pretty roses on the china with his delicate, little
forefinger--he had Mimo's caressing ways with everything he admired and
loved. He had never broken his toys, as other children do; accidental
catastrophes to them had always caused him pain and weeping. And these
bright, new flowery cups should be his special care, to wash, and dry,
and guard.

He grew merry as a cricket, and his laughter pealed over the paper cap
Mimo made for him and the towel his sister had for an apron. They were
to be the servants, and Mimo a lordly guest.

And soon the table was laid, and the buns toasted and buttered; Zara had
even b