Sudden words came, like jagged movements in her mood. She said: “It is not for me that I am miserable. I do not want him for myself. God knows I have no hope of him for myself. It is not that.... God grant it be true that under this all, it is not merely that I want him for myself.... Oh, God grant it be only this! No other danger. I will face that. How gladly then I will give him up!...” She buried her head in her arms, she prayed: she knew not what to pray for. She had the sense of an unholy loneliness, of praying to herself. She sprang up, wide-eyed, looked at her long, transparent hands: she said aloud: “Why am I alive?” A thought came sweeping and cleansing: she was like a sea torn by swift winds, now suddenly a sheet of rain came down and smoothed it, soothed it. So a thought came glancing and offered peace. “I do not have to live,” it said. And that in her which alone she did not question, which alone needed no words since her whole life was its Word, gave answer. “No: what of him? With David in trouble, I must at least be here.” Once more she was a sea churned by the winds of her dilemma. But at least she had the faith that it was good for David that she should live. No faith this. Rather the matrix of her life--the hollow of the world in which lay her sea, however restless it beat.... * * * * * Through the City walked Tom. He and his thoughts were a nimble line parting the City. Through the warm weather and the thick crowds of men and women he cut. Past the great loads of stone, he made his way. He was in Cornelia’s room; it was as if his path had left a wake--half fire, half blood--where his thoughts simmered and soaked into the living City. “Cornelia,” he said to her, “what is there wrong with us?” She looked at him. She loved him. She was glad always to be with him. Why did he not come back to her? In that way alone could she save him. If he stayed where he was---- “Let us cheer up, Tom dear. We’re depressed. I wouldn’t have thought that father’s death could depress us so.” “You know better than that!” “Is there anything more wrong with us, Tom, than with the world?” Tom smiled wanly. “How like a woman that is. However deep we rot, if the world rots as deep, no matter? You women accept the world.... Cornelia, that thought which to you brings consolation, would make me desperate.” She said: “Perhaps we have not found ourselves, yet, Tom.” And he: “Father’s death has suddenly set me to thinking where we are: and you to feeling.” “I am not thinking of father. Ruth’s letter made me think far more of Ruth. Poor wasted Ruth. And Laura--bitter, sick Laura. I think of them.” “Are they the only victims, Sister?” Cornelia was pale. She drew back in her chair as if Tom threatened to strike her. Tom leaned toward her and with a quiet voice went on: “Cornelia,” he said, “Father is dead. The father we revolted from and left. Tell me, Sister, how have we improved upon him?”