112 BRUNO 



It is night in a long white-draped room. 



One end of it is lighted by a lamp having a 

 rose-colored shade. 



In the middle of the lighted end stands a 

 crib. A little white-robed form lies within. 



The pink light so simulates a glow of health 

 that the mother, sitting beside the crib, bends 

 low, thinking the little breast heaves. 



But no. The waxen cheeks chill her lips. 



Still she bends and gazes on that loved little 

 form. 



Bruno lies at the mother's feet. When she 

 moves he rises, looking mournfully into the 

 crib, then turns to rest his head on her knee. 



On a lounge, in the end of the room where 

 shadows lurk, the father lies asleep, exhausted 

 with grief. 



The curtains sway in the open windows, as if 

 the room were breathing. All else is still. 



I see all this as if it were a scene in a dream 

 or as a picture, something in which I have no 

 part ; and yet I feel that my heart throbbed in 

 that mother's bosom. 



I know that after she had sent away all kind 

 friends, to watch alone that last night, it was 

 literally and truly a "white night' to her. 



She felt neither sorrow nor grief. 



