something, he wanted love, passion, and he could not find them.
But why must he trouble her? Why must he come to her with his
seething and suffering and dissatisfactions? She was too
old.

Tom was more restrained, reserved. He kept his body very
still. But he troubled her even more. She could not but see the
black depths of disintegration in his eyes, the sudden glance
upon her, as if she could save him, as if he would reveal
himself.

And how could age save youth? Youth must go to youth. Always
the storm! Could she not lie in peace, these years, in the
quiet, apart from life? No, always the swell must heave upon her
and break against the barriers. Always she must be embroiled in
the seethe and rage and passion, endless, endless, going on for
ever. And she wanted to draw away. She wanted at last her own
innocence and peace. She did not want her sons to force upon her
any more the old brutal story of desire and offerings and deep,
deep-hidden rage of unsatisfied men against women. She wanted to
be beyond it all, to know the peace and innocence of age.

She had never been a woman to work much. So that now she
would stand often at the garden-gate, watching the scant world
go by. And the sight of children pleased her, made her happy.
She had usually an apple or a few sweets in her pocket. She
liked children to smile at her.

She never went to her husband's grave. She spoke of him
simply, as if he were alive. Sometimes the tears would run down
her face, in helpless sadness. Then she recovered, and was
herself again, happy.

On wet days, she stayed in bed. Her bedroom was her city of
refuge, where she could lie down and muse and muse. Sometimes
Fred would read to her. But that did not mean much. She had so
many dreams to dream over, such an unsifted store. She wanted
time.

Her chief friend at this period was Ursula. The little girl
and the musing, fragile woman of sixty seemed to understand the
same language. At Cossethay all was activity and passion,
everything moved upon poles of passion. Then there were four
children younger than Ursula, a throng of babies, all the time
many lives beating against each other.

So that for the eldest child, the peace of the grandmother's
bedroom was exquisite. Here Ursula came as to a hushed,
paradisal land, here her own existence became simple and
exquisite to her as if she were a flower.

Always on Saturdays she came down to the Marsh, and always
clutching a little offerin