She had not known what she would say when she spoke first but she had certainly not thought of saying anything like this. And she certainly had not known that she would suddenly find herself overwhelmed by a rising tidal wave of unbearable woe and drop her face on to the old woman's lap with wild sobbing. She had not come down from London to do this--but away from the world--in the clean, still little cottage room which seemed to hold only grief and silence and death the wave rose and broke and swept her with it. Mrs. Bennett only gave herself up to the small clutching hands and sat and shivered. "No one--will come in--will they?" Robin was gasping. "There is no one to hear, is there?" "No one on earth," said the old fairy woman. "Quiet and loneliness are left if there's naught else." What she thought it would be hard to say. The blow which had come to her at the end of a long life had, as it were, felled her as a tree might have been felled in Mersham Wood. As the tree might have lain for a short time with its leaves still seeming alive on its branches so she seemed living. But she had been severed from her root. She listened to the girl's sobbing and stroked her hair. "Don't be afraid. There's no one left to hear but the walls and the bare trees in the wood," she said. Robin sobbed on. "You've a kind heart, but you're not crying for me," she said next. "You've a black trouble of your own. There's few that hasn't these days. And it's worse for the young that's got to live through it and after it. When Mary Ann comes to see after me to-morrow morning I may be lying dead, thank God. But you're a child." The small clutching hands clutched more piteously because it was so true--so true. Whatsoever befell there were all the long, long years to come--with only the secret left and the awful fear that sometime she might begin to be afraid that it was not a real thing--since no one had ever known or ever would know and since she could never speak of it or hear it spoken of. "I'm so afraid," she shuddered at last in a small low voice. "I'm so _lonely_!" The old fairy woman's stroking hand stopped short. "Is there--anything--you'd like to tell me--anything in the world?" she asked tremulously. "There's nothing I'd mind." The pretty head on her lap shook itself to and fro. "No! No! No! No!" the small choked voice gave out. "Nothing--nothing! Nothing. That's why it's so lonely." As she had waited alone through the night in her cradle, as she had watched the sparrows on the roofs above her in the nursery, as she had played alone until Donal came, so it was her fate to be alone now. "But you came away from London because there were too many people there and you wanted to be in a place where there was nothing but an empty cottage and an old woman. Some would call it lonelier here." "The wood is here--the fairy wood!" she cried and her sobbing broke forth tenfold more bitterly.