She could not have hoped that he would understand, and yet she felt more like crying than at any time yet. “My heart is cold,” she said. “It's dead, I think.” He echoed her, whispering, “Not dead, Sancie, not dead, my child. Numbed. He'll warm it asleep, he'll kiss it awake. He loves you.” She moaned as she shook her head. “No, no. He wants me--that's all.” “Well, my dear,” pleaded good Mr. Percival, “and so he may. We do want what we love, don't we now? He's come to his senses by this time, found out the need of you. And I don't wonder at it. You're a beautiful girl, my dear--you're the pick of my bevy. But I must bring back the roses to those cheeks--Mildred Grant, eh? Jack Etherington used to call you that: he was a great rose-fancier--old Jack. Do you remember our tea-party last summer? And how happy we were? Let's be happy again, my lamb! Come, my child, can't you squeeze me out one little smile? You'll make the sun shine in this foggy old den of mine.” He pinched her cheek, peered for the dimple which a smile must bring; then he drew her closer to him and whispered his darling thought: “Shall I tell you something, Sancie? What your old dad prays for when he's by himself? I want another grandchild, my dear--one I can spoil. I ought to be a happy man with what I've got--I know that. But you were always the pet, my love; you know you were--until, until--ah, Sancie! And one of yours! Aren't you going to indulge your old father? He's only got a few years left, mind you. Don't want any more. To see his darling happy, smiling down on her baby--bless me, I'm getting foolish.” He blinked his bravest, but had to wipe his glasses. She rewarded him with a kiss, and did not leave till she could leave him at ease. X Sanchia, after many nights' stony vigil, decided that she must fight her beasts by herself. She was going to make her parents and sisters happy; she was going through with her bargain; but there was no need to tell them any more about it. In her hard mood she told herself that that was the only wear. If she should be wept over, she might well recant. When the fatal word was once spoken, she would write to her mother--that was all that she could do. For the same reason--that she dreaded a tender moment--she did not go to church with her griefs. The Gods there were too human--the Man of Sorrows, the Mother with the swords in her bosom. It was Destiny that had her by the heel. As ye sow, ye shall reap. Vaster gods, heartless, blind, immortal shapes, figuring the everlasting hills, were her need. She was going to her fate, because the Fates called her. There's no war with them.