en her uncle and
her servants had had to care for her till morning. It was the last
service she had required of others. Her daughter had hurried to her
and spent weeks with her in watchful companionship. Perilla had come
back in the summer and gone with her to Sulmo. But neither the love
of the one child nor the grief of the other passed into the citadel
where her will stood at bay before the beleaguering troops of pain.
They were newer to her than they usually are to a woman of her age.
The death of her child's father had brought regret rather than sorrow.
Her will had been disciplined only by the habitual performance of
simple duties which had given her happiness. But untaught, unaided,
it slew her enemies and left her victor. Her daughters had long since
given over worrying about her, had, indeed, begun to draw again upon
her generous stores. Only her uncle, who knew the cost of warfare
better, still silently watched her eyes. He knew that her victory
had to be won afresh every night as soon as the aegis of the day was
lifted. For a long time this had meant nights of dry-eyed anguish,
which threatened her sanity, or nights of weakening tears. Through
these months her uncle had come to see her every day. He had not
doubted the strength of her will, but he had feared that the strength
of her body might be sacrificed to its triumph. Her long days of
self-control, however, repaired the ravages of the night hours, and
little by little her strong mind, from which she had resolutely
withheld all narcotics, reasserted its sway over her nerves. She
recovered her power to think. To her a clear understanding of
principles by which she was to decide the details of conduct had
always been essential.

To-day, in this favourite hour of hers, when the mask laid by a busy
day over the realities of life began to be gently withdrawn, she had
set herself the task of analysing certain thoughts which had been
with her hazily for over a week. On Ovid's birthday she had sent
little presents to the grandchildren and written to her stepdaughter
a letter which she hoped would make her feel that she was still the
daughter of her father's house. In doing this she had been poignantly
reminded of the birthday fete two years ago, of Perilla's sweetness
to her, and of their conversation, so light-hearted at the time,
about woman's place in the state. Since then she had been wondering
whether she could still say that it was enough for her to be a wi