"Is this books, or Bessie?" And then, as Theresa raised her face, "Terry! What has happened? Nothing to you--or Grace?" "No, no, dear, it's just the things I hear about. Truly." She was on her knees, stroking her mother's face, aghast at her own carelessness. "It's Grace who is unfaithful, and no one gives a thought to me!" "You are so dramatic, dear! Don't give way to the temptation." "I know," Theresa murmured. "It's wicked of me." But this time her outburst had had no impulse but what came from her own indignant heart. "You're not always sure, are you, of what you really feel?" "Oh, how did you know? But is anybody?" "Lots of people, I think. This--this may be my farewell sermon, Terry, so be attentive!" "I won't listen if you talk like that." "I won't, then, and I'm not going to preach. I only want to tell you to go on taking care of them all for me. You do it better than I ever did, and it has been a sacrifice." Had it? Theresa looked back through the months. What would she have done with them if they had been hers to use? The thought of the immortal poem rose up in a cloud of dust. It would never be anything more than dust, offensive to eyes and nose, choking her. With a defiant movement of the arms she scattered it, yet still its odour remained, mocking her with its dry offence. She spurned the idea of herself as poet, her head was unaccountably humbled, yet through it there darted swiftly the vision of herself as novelist. It was a vision easier to live with, and she welcomed it, straightening her back. "There's Grace," her mother was saying softly; "she is so pretty. Don't let her marry the wrong person, Terry." "She's rather clever at dodging the mistakes. She has a lot of commonsense. I'm much more likely to do something insane, in spite of my looks! Being plain makes one so independent!" "You're not plain, dear. Father thinks you're beautiful." "Oh, Father!" The old allegiance and the new scorn were fairly mingled. "Yes," said Nancy, twisting her lips, "it is rather like that, I know. And there's Uncle George. He's much nicer near than at a distance. Theresa, do you mind him very much?" "I rather like him," she answered, reddening. "Aren't we being good?" said Nancy gaily. "And you'll keep Bessie. I know she's not much use, but she's a friend. I shouldn't like you to have a stranger. And--and there's Father." Tears dropped straight and unheeded into her lap. "Theresa, he loves you so much, and he'll need you. Be kind to him. He's so unhappy when you're not." The appeal could only throw his treachery into black relief, but in an illuminating flash that went violently through her head, and left her weak and giddy, she thought she understood it, understood all things, and she promised, weeping, too, that she would care for him.