I laughed in his face. His voice grew husky as he spoke again: "Stay for my sake then, Marcia; just five days--I 'm as nigh ter you as any in this world." "Not so very, Cale." Out of the numbness of my body, out of my bitterness of heart, out of the depths of my misery, I spoke: "Cale, listen. For twenty-six years I was in this world, and four men--the one people call my father, you, my uncle-in-law who loved your wife, my mother's sister, Doctor Rugvie who brought me into this world and made but two attempts to find me, Mr. Ewart who as George Jackson brought me home in his arms, a baby three days old, and left me for good and all, worse than orphaned--all four of you, how much have you cared for me in reality? Answer me that." There was silence in the room. I heard Cale draw a heavy breath. "You don't answer," I went on unmercifully, "and I am going away. I, too, am going to 'cut loose'. I want you to go down to Mère Guillardeau's and tell her André is dead, and the seignior will be here in five days." "What--now?" He moistened his lips. "Yes, now." "But you had n't ought ter be alone." "I am not alone; the dogs are here and little Pete." He rose and crossed the room. At the door he turned; his voice trembled excessively, and I saw he was in fear. "Promise me you won't do nothing rash, Marcia." I laughed aloud. "I promise--now go." When I heard him drive away from the house, I went upstairs and began to pack my trunk. The sooner I could get out of Lamoral, the better for all concerned, Mr. Ewart included. Did he think for one moment that I would consent to being loved for my mother's sake? Did he think to make good, through me, the loss of the woman he loved? How had he dared, knowing, yes, _knowing_ all, to love me for that other who never loved him! Why did he try to force his love upon her and, by changing the very channels of nature, bring all this devastation of misery upon my life? Why, why? I packed rapidly. There was not so much to take with me. Then I went through the rooms one after another: the living-room--the office. I looked at the Méryon etchings--the Pont Neuf and Ste. Etienne--on its walls. Upstairs, too, I went; into Jamie's room, into Mrs. Macleod's, then to Mr. Ewart's. I stopped short on the threshold. "Why am I going in here?" I asked myself. "What am I doing here?" I stepped in; looked about at my own handiwork--then at the bed. I crossed quickly to it and laid my cheek down upon his pillow. It was only for a moment. I heard wheels on the driveway. Cale was returning. "I am ready, Cale. You can take us over with the trunk in the light wagon; little Pete can go with us." The look he gave me was pitiful, but it made no appeal to me. "You will have to wait good forty minutes if you go now." "I don't mind it. _You_ need not wait. I would rather not say goodby." "Where are you goin', Marcia?"