"You see, I gathered them about me so light-heartedly," said the man, "there was no thought about the future. I think I'd got an idea that we were going to live in this place for ever--without changing--almost without growing up. Silly--wasn't it?" He laughed feebly, and shook his head at that folly that was done with. "And yet I meant it for the best. Jimmy, now, could look after himself; boys are different. But it's the--the girls." "Oh--I know, my dear--I know!" whispered the old woman, thrusting back a lock of grey hair from her forehead, and looking perplexedly at the fire. "But you can appoint guardians--people to look after them--and to look after the money?" "Oh, yes, I shall do all that," he said. "That's the first thing I shall set about doing; I'll leave everything square and straight; trust me for that. It seems strange I should be arranging things like this--doesn't it? I think yesterday--or even this morning, for the matter of that--I wanted to live quite a long time. Now it doesn't seem to matter so much--except--except for the children." He waved his hand indefinitely, and smiled upon her with a wan smile. "It would have been worse for you, dear--the going would have been worse, I mean--except for the babies," she reminded him gently. "That seems to me the best of it; several of 'em to be sorry--more sorry than most. Now, when it comes to my time----" He moved towards the door of the room, and came back again; he fingered the brim of his hat, and looked at it as he spoke. "Of course they may have made a mistake--but I don't think so. It seems--seems rather a pity--doesn't it?" And again he spoke as of someone else. She did not reply; together they went to the outer door, and stood there for a moment looking at the stars. He seemed to indicate the stars as he leaned towards the old woman for a moment, and nodded his head towards the sky. "It all seems very peaceful," he said whimsically. "I mean--nothing seems to be threatened; no vengeance or punishment for blunders--nothing of that at all. Even God sleeps, perhaps, on such a night as this--and mercifully forgets. Good-night!" There was that between them that the old hand lay for a moment in the firmer grasp of the younger one before he shook it and let it go. As he reached the gate, he looked back and nodded; and she called to him, holding her candle above her head: "Good-bye!" Then, as he disappeared, she called out feebly, in a mere whisper--"No--no--I didn't mean 'good-bye'; I meant--'good-night.' Not 'good-bye'!" But Paul was gone, and a puff of wind from the garden blew out her candle. CHAPTER VII "OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY"