She crept to his door and softly opened it.
The old man stood near his window, through which he could see a slit of
blue sky between two walls. On the sill were the pink geraniums he
nursed through winter and summer, their pinkness brightening the gloom
of the bare, dim room. Jacques Henri called them his family.
"Jacques Henri!" Beryl ran to him and threw her strong arms about him.
"Hold! Let me look. My girl? Ah, do my old eyes tell me false things?
No, it's my little Beryl!"
Beryl took his violin from him, kissed its strings lightly and laid it
carefully upon the table. Then she pushed the startled old man back into
the one comfortable chair and perched herself upon its arm.
"Listen, dear Jacques Henri, and I'll tell you the strangest story that
you ever heard--about Queens and gypsies and green beads and a girl you
know. Don't say _one_ word until I'm through." And Beryl told in all its
wonderful detail, the happenings of the morning.
"And don't you see what it means? I can begin to study at _once_! Right
this minute! And, _oh_, how I'll work and practice and learn until--"
She caught up the old man's violin and its bow and drew it across the
strings.
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