She waited for the request he had made so often, which she must refuse again, but it did not come. Was he tired of asking for a companionship she would not grant? Through the blackness of her disappointment she looked at him, wondering how often she had given him pain, and, as if in answer, he spoke, fidgeting with his hands. "You mustn't think because you have not done all we hoped, you mustn't think yourself a failure. It is not given to many daughters to be what you have been to me. I want you to remember that--try to remember that." "Do you think I could forget it?" she cried, in a voice that broke into harshness. "You put all your own goodness into me, and call it mine!" She could not see for tears. She made a little fluttering movement with her hands and dropped her head against his shoulder. He slipped his arm about her waist, and so they sat, in an according silence. On the Thursday before Good Friday, George Webb packed a small black bag and started off on a solitary holiday, and a few hours later Chesterfield Row was animated by the departure in a cab of Grace and the baby, Phil and the violin, sundry packages, and a puppy. "Heaven knows how we'll get there," Grace said cheerfully to Theresa, from the depths of the musty cab. "We have to change three times, and this wretched animal always wants to eat people's feet, but I dare not leave him behind. He's as strong as a lion, and would be sure to kill something. And I thought he would be a sort of plaything for Baby!" "I hope Phil's mother will appreciate him." "That entirely depends on her affection for her boots. What's Phil doing? We shall lose the train." "Tearing his hair. He can't find something. It's his umbrella. It's here, Phil, in the cab. What a family! And fancy troubling about an umbrella!" "He never touches it except when he is going on a journey. Men----Oh, do get in, Phil." "And don't tread on Grace's toes! Good-bye, good-bye!" Theresa went indoors, laughing. These people were so perennially young and beautiful. Early on Saturday morning it was Edward Webb's turn to go. "Will you be very lonely with all of us gone?" he asked. "No. There's Bessie; and I shall read your poems. May I?" "Of course, my dear, of course. They are all yours. I hope you won't think the less of me for them." "I can't think any more, dear, if they are the most marvellous ever written. You are not eating any breakfast." "I have had some coffee." "I shan't let you go unless you eat a lot." "I'll try, my dear, but before a journey, and so early in the morning----" "That's dyspepsia, worthy of Uncle George!" She took him by the chin and turned his face to the light. "You don't look well. Didn't you sleep?" "Oh yes, yes." He ate hastily, guiltily, and she was not deceived, but she did not know the reason for his sleeplessness, nor that he had sat long by her bed that night, watching her quiet features and the shades of dreams passing across her face.