But he never had it. Never could understand it, Morgan thought. After all, man is the lord of creation, Morgan decided--that's true isn't it?--and all living things were for him to use. He had all rights over them, even to life and death. That was how some folks looked at it--not crazy people like the Fitzpauls. And Reynardine did n't like the way he broke horses. Reynardine did n't like the way he shot pheasants. She was a queer girl, but--God!--she was very beautiful! Well, that was the whole story of it; they did n't get on. There grew a gulf between them, and was that his fault? he asked. Was it his fault he was n't insane? Was it his fault he was too much of a man for her? And when she was to have a child, she expected so much of him. She never asked of course--oh, no! She would never ask for anything, but she followed him with dumb eyes. What did she expect, anyhow? It was no man's job to hang around a gravid woman all the time, holding her hand. A million women in the world were bearing children. What was there to it, after all? Every one did it. And then she had run home. Let her run. Crazy coot! And when she was dying and sent for him, did he refuse to go and see her, as many a man would have done? No, he went. He remembered well the soft April twilight; the dim white figure in the great bed, with the haunting eyes. And her four big brothers standing around with set, grim faces. "My husband," she had said, "for anything I did to you here, for any way I hurt, will you please forgive me?" "That's all right, Reynardine," he said. "We were just not suited. And I forgive you." Then, awkwardly: "I'm sorry to see you this way, Reynardine." A light had gone out of her face: "Then--good-by!" Her hand unclasped from his. "Good-by!" he had said uncomfortably, and turned to go. He noticed three of the brothers look at the senior, Gilchrist, meaningly. Gilchrist turned to go after him. A cold shiver had gone down Morgan's spine. His knees trembled. And then came the very soft voice: "Gilchrist, and brothers dear, in a minute maybe I 'll have gone with the twilight, and I shall not be able to talk to you again, ever again, with these human lips. And I 'm going to ask you just one more favor, brothers dear, my brothers. Please do it for your sister. Let my--let this man go!" Then Gilchrist threw open the door. "This is no place for you," he had said. "Go!" A crazy breed! He had never heard from them again. Never had they asked him to see or support his daughter. He had even forgotten her name. But he did n't want to see her. He wanted to see no more of the Fitzpaul blood. She was living in the old place, he understood, which was hers now. Well, let her-- But--funny! He could never get out of his mind's eye the vision of his wife sitting by the great piano, plucking out the ancient melody: "If by chance you look for me Perhaps you 'll not me find, For I 'll be in my castle--"