"No," she sighed, breathlessly. "No; nothing! There would be no comfort. He is everything to me--everything! More, a thousand times more, than when we were married; but, Vanna, can you believe it? there have been times during these last years when I have envied _you_. The balance hasn't been _all_ on my side. To be well; to be strong; to be able to run about, and plan out one's life; to say `I will do this, I will do that'; to shut up house at a day's notice, shake off responsibilities, and go away for long, lovely rests--oh, it has seemed so _good_! When we were young we took health for granted: one has to be ill to realise how it counts; how desperately it counts. Love is said to triumph over all; but, Vanna dear, one needs to be well to be able even to love. That sounds strange, but it's true; there's no feeling left. Often and often I've longed all day for Robert to come home, and after he has been in the room for five minutes, I've longed for him to go away again. I've been too tired! Of course every woman does not suffer as I have done; but then how many have a husband like Robert? I tell him sometimes that my bad health is the price I've had to pay for having a saint for my husband. If I'd kept well, it would have been too perfect. One does not get everything... And the children--little pets! they love me now; I am a sort of god to them; all that I do is right; but sometimes as I hold them a pang goes through my heart; such a pang! _I know it won't last_! I shall go on loving them more and more, _needing_ them more; but they will grow past me. They will make their own lives, their own friends, and I shall retreat farther and farther into the background. They will love me still; I shall be the `dear old mater; but they won't need me any more.' I won't really touch their lives. I remember how father loved me, and how I left him without a pang! Is it _possible_ that he felt as I should do, if Lorna or Joyce... The young are cruel to the old--" Thus Jean, with many tender, loving words; but Vanna noted with a pang that she never once expressed the belief which alone could have brought comfort--the belief that Piers would speedily return home, and remain faithful until death. The last day came--a blur of pain and grief. Piers spent his last hour alone with Vanna in the den, in which the first happy hours of their engagement had been passed, demanding of her a dozen impossible promises--that she would stay with Jean until his return, that she would not tire herself, that she would be happy; and if at times a bitter reply trembled on her lips, she repressed it valiantly, knowing that by so doing she was saving herself an added sting. His last words imprinted themselves in her brain, and were sweet to remember: