"Dear, dear, I love you," she said to herself, and her lover was far away from her thoughts. On the throne of life a bowed old woman seemed to sit alone. "Oh, I'll be better to you after this, only live and give me a chance." She drew her limp figure up suddenly and turned her back on Harry's whispered solicitude. A lightning-like realization came, as she sat there, of what the life of this woman had meant to her. And it was going--going--would be gone, perhaps, before Val got home. She covered up her face. She told herself it was no common relation that she bore to the ancient _châtelaine_ of the Fort. Something deeper than the blood tie, a thing wrought out of sheer personal force, hammered out of antagonisms, welded with fear and with love, and binding, abiding gratitude for a glimpse of the unconquerable mind. She saw now that if life from the beginning had never worn that cheap and shabby air that it did to many girls without wealth or family distinction; if, from the beginning, and day by day to the end, life had carried itself bravely in the tumble-down old home; if in the leanest years it had never lacked dignity, nor ever lost its faint old-world fragrance; Val knew who it was who had wrought the spell, and who had maintained it against all comers. And this magical power was threatened; this costly life in danger. It suddenly seemed the one thing in the world best worth preserving. A few hours before she had faced the idea of its loss so willingly--her tears gushed afresh at the memory--even with an obscure, impatient longing she had thought of this thing, that she saw now in its true aspect, as unspeakably terrible and tragic. For it was something irreparable. There was nothing like _her_ in the world; the things that went to her making had passed away. To think that all that was represented by such a spirit--that a force like this, after enduring and dominating life so long, should go out into Nothingness--why, it was merely incredible. But the presentment of the possibility had shaken the foundations of the world. It was close on midnight when Val and Wilbur drove up to the gate. "Harry," said the girl, "you've been so kind, be kinder still: let me go in alone." "Very well. I'll come back in a quarter of an hour to see if I can do anything." There was a light in the long room. Val lifted the knocker, and as it fell Emmie opened the door. It seemed to Val that her sister's face said "Death." She pushed past her without greeting, and into the long room. Mrs. Gano was sitting in the great chair. She leaned forward, holding fast by the arms. The veil falling on either side her face did not hide, or even soften, the expression of concentrated contempt with which she said, very low: "So you've come back." "Y--yes. I thought--" "You thought you'd come before it was too late." "Yes; I was afraid--" "I'm glad there's _something_ you're afraid of doing, though I can scarce imagine what."