She sat silent. It had never occurred to her to take anyone into her confidence; the thought of being pitied was too upsetting; but Roger was different. He would be able to help; he was strong and reliable and dignified. Supposing she told him, he would not obtrude his knowledge of her secret during the next few months, and indeed he must be fond of her, she decided, or he would never have guessed at the existence of trouble for he was not naturally intuitive. She took a rapid decision and then spoke. "I'm glad you came in to-night, Roger. I would like to tell you something rather important both to you and to me. I had never thought of telling, but now I feel I would like to do so." She paused for a moment, looking down into the quiet street, and then continued: "I saw a specialist to-day as you know, and he told me what I've feared for some months. I've got cancer, Roger dear, and they can't operate or do anything for it." Unconsciously she tightened her grasp of his hand and hurried on. "And you see dear, I haven't much time left; only a few months in fact, and you can help me to arrange all sorts of things if you will." She stopped, a little breathless, and looked at Roger. He was sitting very still but she could see the muscles of his throat twisting as he swallowed and swallowed again, still in silence. When at last he answered her his voice came huskily from a dry throat. "I never guessed at anything like this, Aunt Sarah. I never dreamed of anything so terrible. I don't suppose you want me to tell you how sorry I am"--He broke off and then burst out, "It's hopelessly inadequate just to say I'm sorry; it means far more than that." "Hush, my dear, you'll waken Mary if you talk so loud; and listen, Roger, I don't want you to feel like this. I'm an old woman and I've not got much to live for, so it seems quite natural and right to me. I don't want you to get worked up about it; I want you to help me." "Of course I will," answered Roger. "You must tell me what to do. But you must realise, Aunt Sarah, that this is a bad knock to me; it's so awful to have you here like this, here with me now, and to know at the same time that you're so ill." He was obviously unstrung, but Sarah Greene was too intent on her subject even to notice. Her soft untroubled voice went on: "It isn't awful to know beforehand, Roger; it's splendid, because of Lynton. Lynton really is important, and I can make so many preparations now that I know. I'm leaving it to you, Roger--money too, of course, but that doesn't matter. It's the house and land that matter. You'll live there, you and Mary; your children will be born there, and when you die your son will have it. Are you listening Roger dear, do you understand?" Roger relaxed his attitude of strained attention; he had caught something of the urgency of her preoccupation.