MOTHER ELBOWS HER WAY to the bed. Nonsense! she is preparing to say, and put the conceited chemist in his place, but just as she is opening her mouth, just as she is about to bring him low, the word refuses to come forth.
Instead she says, It's you.
It's you, she thinks and reaches out to touch the beautiful woman, fast asleep in the bed where her daughter ought to be. If only you were not sleeping, you could tell me: Did you find it? Did you ever find your voice, your lovely face? Mother thinks, I would like to know.
But already Beatrice is beside her, pulling her back and murmuring in her ear, It's not my fault. I told her, No. But she was so tired, she wouldn't listen.
And already the mayor is clearing his throat, the women are massing, the captain is stamping the heels of his boots, when a small, gruff voice is heard from below.
It is Emma, the mayor's youngest daughter, who is squeezing him by the hand.
Papa, she says, you must hurry. If you want to have a good seat, you must come to the barn right now.