He had been nearly seven when his mother died, and he remembered her vividly.

She had so loved Tschaikovsky's music, and this piece especially.

He had played it to her--from ear then--the afternoon she lay dying, and for him, as for them all, it was indissolubly connected with her memory.

The tears were slowly trickling down Mirko's cheeks.

He was going to be taken away from his father, his much loved Cherisette would not be near him, and he feared and hated strangers.
He felt he was talking to his mother with his bow.