"Yes," he said--"yes." He was forlorn and afraid as he closed the door on the doctor, and he saw Nancy afloat on an ebbing tide. She was leaving him, very slowly; she was dwindling in his sight, and soon there would be no more than a memory of her fragrance. He could not stay the mighty sea which bore her from him, but he strained his eyes for another glimpse of her grace, and a sob jerked itself from his throat. "Nancy," he said, "not yet, not yet!" He made indefinite movements with his hands. He had not known how ill she was. She had hidden her suffering from him, she was brave and good, and he must keep her. Again he called on her name, curving his fingers as though they held her hand. There was a creaking of the stairs. He felt his arm clasped. "What did he say?" Theresa whispered. "Tell me--tell me, oh, what did he say?" They went together to the dark dining-room, and sat close to the table on the hard, leather-covered chairs. "She will recover," he said, stretching his limp arms on the tablecloth; "but she will need care, constant care, Theresa. She must have no excitement, no shock, no worry." "I'll help you." The words were hard to say, but her reward came. "I have great faith in you, Theresa." "I'll truly try to help." The quivering of her voice was involuntary, but the sound pleased her. "I know." There was a silence in which Theresa began an immortal poem. Very quickly it must be written to bring fame and money to this stricken house. "We can't afford another servant, and your mother will need much care." Theresa's hands worked together under the table. "Grace is earning money, she must not be taken from her work." "But there's Uncle George coming," she said in quiet desperation. "But my salary is halved. We are very poor!" She sat in a blackness which had become peopled by selfish desires that warred with unselfish ones. She saw them as opposing hosts, she heard the clash of armour and weapons, steel against steel, and she bowed her head in fear of blows, felt herself running from the horrid dangers of the fray. What a coward, to escape when the issue of battle lay in her own strength! More than sinners she hated cowards, and suddenly the tumult ended. "I'm sixteen--more," she said aloud. "I'll leave school. I'll work at home. Anyhow, I'm not the kind that gets much good from lessons." A faint murmur from Edward Webb resolved itself into the words: "There's your future, your career. It ought not to be sacrificed, my child." "It doesn't matter," she mumbled. "I can't allow it, yet," his voice rose wailingly, "what am I to do? What am I to do?"