They called out loud their thanks--their "Grazie, grazie," as sweet as
any lily just broken from its stem--and as they turned to go Mae saw
that each one was decked with a sprig from the bouquet, pulled through
his button-hole or the riband of his hat.
Only the tallest musician, who walked somewhat apart, carried his flower
tightly clasped in his hand, and now and again he raised it to his lips.
He probably dreamed over it that night, and played his dream out in
a gentle, wistful, minor adoration before the Madonna at the Quattro
Fontane the next morning.
O, the dreams and poems and songs without words that drop into our lives
from the sudden flash of stranger eyes, or the accidental touch of an
unknown hand, or the tender warmth of a swift smile! And if our eyes,
our touch, our smiles may only have floated off in like manner--as
dreams and poems and melody--to give added rhythm and harmony to other
lives.
Mae drew a long sigh, one of those delightful, contented sighs, with a
smile wrapped up in it.
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