The carriage that was to take the bride and bridegroom to the station was waiting in the Tuscan sunlight, surrounded by the laughing, impatient crowd. As Anne-Marie appeared—her rose-lit face half hidden in her furs, her travelling-hat poised lightly at the back of her shining head—the crowd shouted and cheered, just as it had always done after her concerts. And she smiled and nodded, and said, "Good-bye! Good-bye! Thank you, and good-bye!" just as she always did at the close of her concerts. The bridegroom, tall and serious beside her, would have liked to hurry her into the carriage, but she took her hand from his arm and stopped, turning and smiling to the right and to the left, shaking hands with a hundred people who knew her and loved and blessed her. With one foot on the carriage-step, she still nodded and smiled and waved her hand. Then the young husband lifted her in, jumped in beside her, and shut the carriage-door. Cheers and shouts and waving hats followed them as the horses, striking fire from their hoofs, broke into a gallop, and carried them down the street and out of sight.

... Nancy had not left the house. She had not gone to the window. She could hear the cheers and the laughter, and for a moment she pictured herself with Anne-Marie in the carriage, driving home after the concerts—Anne-Marie still nodding, first out of one window, then out of the other, laughing, waving her hand; then falling into her mother's arms with a little sigh of delight. At last they were alone—alone after all the crowd—in the darkness and the silence, after all the noise and light. And Anne-Marie's hand was in hers; Anne-Marie's soft hair was on her breast. Again the well-known dulcet tones: "Did you like my concert, Liebstes? Are you happy, mother dear?" Then silence all the way home—home to strange hotels, no matter in what town or in what land. It was always home, for they were together.

Nancy stepped to the window, both hands held tightly to her heart. The road was empty. The house was empty. The world was empty. Then she cried, loud and long—cried, stretching her arms out before her, kneeling by the window: "Oh, my little girl! My own child! What shall I do? What shall I do?"

But there was nothing left for Nancy to do.

Now it was late. Her Book was dead. Her child had left her. And the blue garden was closed.