They walked down a white road and came to a cottage. She knocked. A voice, which he ought to have recognized, told her to enter. Sitting in a low chair, her foot rocking a cradle, was Riska. She rose, overcome with surprise, lowering her face, awaiting his judgment. As he pressed her to him, the baby began to cry. She stooped, picked him up and held him out to Peter. “Isn't he sweet?” The first words she had spoken--spoken without shame or apology, almost with pride! It seemed impossible that a sin which had made a thing so beautiful could need excusing. He met her eyes, reading in them sacrifice. Where was the old Riska, impatient of restraint, eager to catch men, with the petulant, fluttering mouth? The passion which should have destroyed had purified, just as his grief which might have embittered had made him more anxious to help. On the way to England she told him of Hardcastle. “I got so tired of trying and trying to get married. All the men found out something--father, or my shallowness, or something. I don't blame them. And all the time, ever since I was a little girl, mother talked about the raft and what happened if a girl didn't escape from it. I grew desperate and frightened. It was anything to catch a man. And then Roy----. He said he'd marry me in Paris; afterwards he put off and put off. When he'd deserted me, I didn't like to write. After the baby came----. I don't know, it may be all wrong, but I wasn't a bit ashamed of myself. I didn't write then because I couldn't bear to think of people despising him. If the golden woman hadn't met me---- Oh, well, I should have gone on somehow, earning money for baby with my hands.----But, dear Peter, I'm so glad you found me. I never understood you till now.” At Topbury that first night, after a hurried reference to Kay, they didn't trust themselves to talk about her. They tortured themselves the more by their reticence. Everything spoke so loudly of her absence. Nan sat with Riska's child in her arms--the child which should have been unwelcome. It seemed to fill a gap in her life; they all knew what was passing behind her eyes. The evening grew late. She and Riska went slowly up to bed. Peter turned to his father. For hours he had sat grimly watching the landscape by Cuyp, where the comfortable burgher walked forever unperturbed by the banks of the gray canal. “Father.” “Yes.” “We're not doing right.” “Right!” He shrugged his shoulders. His gesture accused God defiantly. “No, father--not doing right. One of the last things she said was that she'd know and be unhappy if we broke our hearts about her. She does know, and--and I think we've been making her sad.” For a long time his father sat brooding. He stretched out his hand, “Your imagination, Peter--you've never outgrown it. But--but we don't want to make her sad.”