Later, when Tony had scampered away to bowl at the nets, and she was alone in the kitchen washing up tea-things, she bent her mind upon the extraordinary turn of affairs. The heat had made her so languid that she was obliged to sit down while the kettle boiled upon her tiny oil-stove. Her visit to London had done her spirits good, but London air is not the best for recuperative purposes. Moreover, she had been up late most nights during her stay in town, and the thought of Gerald had at times disturbed her rest. Since her return--and more especially since hearing about the mortgage trouble--her strength seemed to grow less and less. The knowledge that she was almost at the end of her means, and saw no chance of replenishing the empty exchequer, had acted upon a body weakened by a long course of underfeeding. In her heart she knew that she could not go on much longer acting as general servant, and starving herself that the others might have enough. If she broke down--if her health proved to be so undermined that she could not take a situation--what was to become of these helpless ones? The idea that her mother could help in any way never occurred to her. The three were bracketed together in her mind, as those for whom she had promised her dying father to care. Now came a way out--not an inviting one, but one that had to be faced nevertheless. If she married Mr. Gaunt, he undertook to lift her burdens from her shoulders. Moreover, he lived in the country--the real country. Omberleigh Grange was in Derbyshire, and it must have a garden--a real garden, such as she had been born to, such as she loved. A garden in which to rest and grow strong again, a garden in which Pansy might be wheeled along smooth walks, and lie under the spreading shade of big trees. These things could be hers, at a price. What did the price involve? Mr. Gaunt had loved her mother. He knew, of course, that her mother had preferred another man; but she, Virginia, bore a wonderful resemblance to the woman lost, and the lonely man wanted to satisfy his empty heart by cherishing her. In return, he would do for mother, for Pansy, for Tony, all the things that she, poor Virgie, in her helplessness, could not do, with all her love. The sacrifice demanded was just the sacrifice of herself. Well--what did that matter? Why should she not be sacrificed, for the good and happiness of those she loved so ardently? It really was very simple, after all. Perhaps a few weeks earlier she might not have felt quite so indifferent. There had been shining gates--the gates of a young girl's fancy--and shyly they had begun to open, and to show a tiny glimpse of rosy mysteries within. That was over now. It had been but gossamer and illusion. This was a real, definite, tangible plan--a rope held out to save her perishing family, drifting on a bit of wreckage. In the seizing of the rope, she herself, incidentally, would be sacrificed. That was all. Why not?