By the time that the scanty crockery was arranged in spotless order on the shelves, and the kitchen as tidy as a new pin, the girl had practically come to a decision. She said nothing, however, that night. Pansy was a little over-tired after her garden excursion, and could not get to sleep, so, instead of sitting with her mother downstairs, Virginia remained at the little invalid's bedside and read aloud. When at last the child slept, she was too tired to do anything but go to bed herself. Nevertheless, her preoccupations awoke her in the early summer dawn. In her utter simplicity she slipped from bed and knelt down in her white garment. She asked for guidance, and it seemed to her childlike faith that it was granted. Like her namesake in far-off old Rome, she must be sacrificed. She remembered the words of the ballad she had learned as a child, the words spoken by the frantic father of the Roman Virginia: "And now, my own dear little girl, there is no way but this!" It was as though her own father's voice spoke to her from the grave, urging her to courage and a stout heart. The man was a stranger, the man was formidable; but she would be so good to him that they must grow to understand each other. It was the only way, and she resolved to take it. CHAPTER VII VIRGINIA DECIDES "_Early in the morning When the first cock crowed his warning Neat as bee, as sweet and busy, Fetched in honey, milked the cows, Aired and set to rights the house,... Fed the poultry, sat and sewed; Talked as modest maidens should._" --Christina Rossetti. When Virginia went into her mother's room after breakfast that morning, she told her quietly that she had made her decision. Mrs. Mynors gave a half-stifled, excited exclamation. For the life of her she could not have told what she hoped or desired. She stared at her composed daughter with eyes half of entreaty, half of fear. "I shall write and tell Mr. Gaunt to come to-morrow," said Virginia with calm. "Oh, for pity's sake, child, are you not mad?" cried the wretched woman in the bed. "I have considered it," was the steady answer. "He is unhappy, and I am pretty sure that I could be a comfort to him. His way of doing things seems odd; but he is lonely, and I daresay he has been soured. I will do all I can to make him happy, if he on his side will perform his promises to you and the children." "Virgie, don't!" The voice was so altered, so strange, that the girl paused, wondering. "Don't? Why do you say so?" "Because I----" Mrs. Mynors came to a stop. What could she say? "Because I have a lurking idea that he will not be kind to you." How ridiculous that sounded! And upon what was it based? Only upon the man's manner--his insolence, his evident desire to wound and insult her. Somehow she could not tell Virgie how his open contempt had stung. "Because you--you don't know him--you can't love him," she stammered.