But it was not all. While the others sat silent for a minute, their thoughts on the great struggle, Farraday's eyes ran again down that last page. “Poor Byrd,” Mac wrote, “so you say he'll not last many years. Well, life would have broken him anyway, and it's grand he's found himself before the end. He's not the lasting kind, there's too much in him, and too little. She wins, after all, James; life won't cheat her as it has him. She is here just to be true to her instincts--to choose the finest mate for her nest-building. She'll marry again, though the dear woman doesn't know it, and would be horrified at the thought. But she will, and it won't be either of us--we are too much her kind. It will be some other brilliant egoist who will thrill her, grind her heart, and give her wonderful children. She is an instrument. As I think I once heard poor Byrd say, she is not merely an expression of life, she is life.” James folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. “Come, son, we must be going,” murmured Mrs. Farraday, putting up her knitting. “Rosamond is almost asleep,” smiled Mary. “Don't rise, my dear,” said the little lady, “we'll find our own way.” “Good-bye, Farraday,” said Stefan, “and thank you for everything.” Mary held out her hand to them both, and they slipped quietly out. “What a good day it has been, dearest. I hope you aren't too tired,” she said, as she rocked the drowsy baby. “No, Beautiful, only a little.” He dropped his burnt-out cigarette into the ash-tray at his side. The rocker creaked rhythmically. “Mary, I want to draw Rosamond,” said Stefan thoughtfully. “Oh, do you, dearest? That _will_ be nice!” she exclaimed, her face breaking into a smile of pleasure. “Yes. Do you know, I was watching the little thing this afternoon, when Gunther and all the others were playing with her. It's very strange--I never noticed it before--but it came to me quite suddenly. She's exactly like my mother.” “Is she really?” Mary murmured, touched. “Yes, it's very wonderful. I felt suddenly, watching her eyes and smile, that my mother is not dead after all. Will you--” he seemed a little embarrassed--“could you, do you think, without disturbing her, let me hold the baby for a little while?” THE END End of Project Gutenberg's The Nest Builder, by Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale