epresented his mother as phenomenally genial in her
attitude towards the new arrangement; as having, in fact, a claim to
be considered not only a bestower of benign consent, but an accomplice
before the fact. Still, Rosalind felt her own reserves on the subject,
although she had always taken the part of the Octopus on principle
when she thought Sally had become too disrespectful towards her.
Anyhow, no use to beg and borrow troubles! Let her dwell on the
happiness only that was before them all. She pictured a variety of
homes for Sally in the time to come, peopling them with beautiful
grandchildren--only, mind you, this was to be many, many years ahead!
She could not cast herself for the part of grandmother while she
twined that glorious hair into its place with hands that for softness
and whiteness would have borne comparison with Sally's own.

In the old days, before the news of evil travelled fast, the widowed
wife would live for days, weeks, months, unclouded by the knowledge
of her loneliness, rejoicing in the coming hour that was to bring her
wanderer back; and even as her heart laughed to think how now, at
last, the time was drawing near for his return, his heart had ceased
to beat, and, it may be, his bones were already bleaching where the
assassin's knife had left him in the desert; or were swaying to and
fro in perpetual monotonous response to the ground-swell, in some
strange green reflected light of a sea-cavern no man's eye had ever
seen; or buried nameless in a common tomb with other victims of battle
or of plague; or, worst of all, penned in some dungeon, mad to think
of home, waking from dreams of _her_ to the terror of the intolerable
night, its choking heat or deadly chill. And all those weeks or months
the dearth of news would seem just the chance of a lost letter, no
more--a thing that may happen any day to any of us. And she would live
on in content and hope, jesting even in anticipation of his return.

Even so Rosalind, happy and undisturbed, dwelt on the days that were
to come for the merpussy and poor Prosy, as she still had chosen to
call him, for her husband and herself; and all the while _there_,
so near her, was the end of it all, written in letters of death.

They were taking their time, certainly, those people; so she would
put her hat on and go to meet them. Mrs. Lobjoit wasn't to hurry
breakfast, but wait till they came. All right!

It looked as if it would rain later, so it was just a