At night these thoughts left him. He began to think of Nicky and of his people. His father and mother would never be happy again. Nicky had been more to them than he was, or even John. He had been more to Dorothy. It was hard on Dorothy to lose Nicky and Drayton too. He thought of Nicky and Veronica. Poor little Ronny, what would she do without Nicky? He thought of Veronica, sitting silent in the train, and looking at him with her startling look of spiritual maturity. He thought of Veronica singing to him over and over again: "London Bridge is broken down-- * * * * * "Build it up with gold so fine-- * * * * * "Build it up with stones so strong--" He thought of Veronica running about the house and crying, "Where's Nicky? I want him." Monday was like Sunday, except that he walked up Karva Hill in the morning and up Greffington Edge in the afternoon, instead of Renton Moor. Whichever way he went his thoughts went the same way as yesterday. The images were, if anything, more crowded and more horrible; but they had lost their hold. He was tired of looking at them. About five o'clock he turned abruptly and went back to the village the same way by which he came. And as he swung down the hill road in sight of Renton, suddenly there was a great clearance in his soul. When he went into the cottage he found Veronica there waiting for him. She sat with her hands lying in her lap, and she had the same look he had seen when she was in the train. "Ronny--" She stood up to greet him, as if it had been she who was staying there and he who had incredibly arrived. "They told me you wouldn't be long," she said. "I? You haven't come because you were ill or anything?" She smiled and shook her head. "No. Not for anything like that." "I didn't write, Ronny. I couldn't." "I know." Their eyes met, measuring each other's grief. "That's why I came. I couldn't bear to leave you to it." * * * * * "I'd have come before, Michael, if you'd wanted me." They were sitting together now, on the settle by the hearth-place. "I can't understand your being able to think of me," he said. "Because of Nicky? If I haven't got Nicky it's all the more reason why I should think of his people." He looked up. "I say--how are they? Mother and Father?" "They're very brave. "It's worse for them than it is for me," she said. "What they can't bear is your going." "Mother got my letter, then?" "Yes. This morning." "What did she say?" "She said: 'Oh, no. _Not_ Michael.' "It was a good thing you wrote, though. Your letter made her cry. It made even Dorothy cry. They hadn't been able to, before." "I should have thought if they could stand Nicky's going--" "That was different. They know it was different." "Do you suppose _I_ don't know how different it was? They mean I funked it and Nicky didn't."