How she clung to her and cried and sobbed to be taken, too! And they--Mimo and the mother--always so kind and loving and irresponsible, consented.

And then the flight; and weeks of happiness in luxurious hotels, until the mother's face grew pinched and white, and no letters but her own--returned--came from Uncle Francis.

And ever the fear grew that if Mimo were absent from her for a moment Uncle Francis would kill him.

The poor, adored mother! And then of the coming of Mirko and all their joy over it; and then, gradually, the skeleton of poverty, when all the jewels had been sold and all Mimo's uniform and swords; and nothing but his slender income, which could not be taken from him, remained.

How he had worked to be a real artist, there in Paris! Oh! poor Mimo.