nary things. 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. You are so
strong--won't you see about the funeral for my little love?"

"Of course I will, dear girl," he answered. "You must have no more
distresses. Leave everything to me." And he bent and kissed her white
cheek, while he tenderly began to remove the pins from her fur toque.

"Thank you," she said gently, as she took the hat from his hand, and
laid it beside her. "I grieve because I loved him--my dear little
brother. His soul was all music, and there was no room for him here. And
oh! I loved _Maman_ so! But I know that it is better as it is; he is
safe there, with her now, far away from all his pain. He saw her when he
was dying." Then after a pause she went on: "Uncle Francis, you love
Ethelrida very much, don't you? Try to look back and think how _Maman_
loved Mimo, and he loved her. Think of all the sorrow of her life, and
the great, great price she paid for her love; and then, when you see
him--poor Mimo--try to be merciful."

And Francis Markrute suddenly felt a lump in his throat. The whole
pitiful memory of his beloved sister stabbed him, and extinguished the
last remnant of rancor towards her lover, which had smoldered always in
his proud heart.

There was a moisture in his clever eyes, and a tremulous note in his
cold voice as he answered his niece:

"Dear child, we will forget and forgive everything. My one thought about
it all now, is to