"
Ah, what the little Georgiev had said on his way to the death
that waited down the staircase. Peter, not daring to look at her
again, put away her detaining hand, squared his shoulders, went
to the door.
"Good-bye, Harmony," he said steadily. "Always in my heart!"
Very near the end now: the little Marie on the way to America,
with the recording angel opening a new page in life's ledger for
her and a red-ink line erasing the other; with Jimmy and his
daddy wandering through the heaven of friendly adventure and
green fields, hand in hand; with the carrier resting after its
labors in the pigeon house by the rose-fields of Sofia; with the
sentry casting martial shadows through the barred windows of the
hospital; and the little Georgiev, about to die, dividing his
heart, as a heritage, between his country and a young girl.
Very near the end, with the morning light of the next day shining
into the salon of Maria Theresa and on to Peter's open trunk and
shabby wardrobe spread over chairs. An end of trunks and
departure, as was the beginning.
Early morning at the Gottesacker, or God's acre, whence little
Jimmy had started on his comfortable journey. Early morning on
the frost-covered grass, the frozen roads, the snap and sparkle
of the Donau. Harmony had taken her problem there, in the early
hour before Monia would summon her to labor--took her problem and
found her answer.
The great cemetery was still and deserted.
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