“I’m William Pierce’s, but that hasn’t prevented my being myself.” Lizzie’s mind had grown keener in her sharp middle age. As it played about her, Harriett cowered; it was like being exposed, naked, to a cutting wind. Her mind ran back to her father and mother, longing, like a child, for their shelter and support, for the blessed assurance of herself. At her worst she could still think with pleasure of the beauty of the act which had given Robin to Priscilla. X “My dear Harriett: Thank you for your kind letter of sympathy. Although we had expected the end for many weeks poor Prissie’s death came to us as a great shock. But for her it was a blessed release, and we can only be thankful. You who knew her will realize the depth and extent of my bereavement. I have lost the dearest and most loving wife man ever had....” Poor little Prissie. She couldn’t bear to think she would never see her again. Six months later Robin wrote again, from Sidmouth. “Dear Harriett: Priscilla left you this locket in her will as a remembrance. I would have sent it before but that I couldn’t bear to part with her things all at once. “I take this opportunity of telling you that I am going to be married again----” Her heart heaved and closed. She could never have believed she could have felt such a pang. “The lady is Miss Beatrice Walker, the devoted nurse who was with my dear wife all through her last illness. This step may seem strange and precipitate, coming so soon after her death; but I am urged to do it by the precarious state of my own health and by the knowledge that we are fulfilling poor Prissie’s dying wish....” Poor Prissie’s dying wish. After what she had done for Prissie, if she _had_ a dying wish--But neither of them had thought of her. Robin had forgotten her.... Forgotten.... Forgotten. But no. Priscilla had remembered. She had left her the locket with his hair in it. She had remembered and she had been afraid; jealous of her. She couldn’t bear to think that Robin might marry her, even after she was dead. She had made him marry this Walker woman so that he shouldn’t---- Oh, but he wouldn’t. Not after twenty years. “I didn’t really think he would.” She was forty-five, her face was lined and pitted and her hair was dust color, streaked with gray: and she could only think of Robin as she had last seen him, young: a young face; a young body; young, shining eyes. He would want to marry a young woman. He had been in love with this Walker woman, and Prissie had known it. She could see Prissie lying in her bed, helpless, looking at them over the edge of the white sheet. She had known that as soon as she was dead, before the sods closed over her grave, they would marry. Nothing could stop them. And she had tried to make herself believe it was her wish, her doing, not theirs. Poor little Prissie. She understood that Robin had been staying in Sidmouth for his health.