d he is the same still. No, my dear, I
have not married him to take care of him, but so that he may take care
of me. I'm lonely. I want somebody. I've come to the time of life when
I am of no account to the young folks--not even to Bob, who would not
give me a second thought if I was a poor woman. No, Molly dear, it is
no use your pretending; you know it as well as I do. And quite natural
too. It is the same with all of them. Nothing but money gives me
importance in their eyes. And what's money? It won't keep you warm in
the winter of your days--nothing will, except a companion that is in
the same boat. That is what I want--it may be silly, but I do--somebody
to go down into the valley of the shadow with me; and he feels the
same.' Something in Mary's face as she stared into the fire, something
in the atmosphere of the conversation, drove her into this line of
self-defence. 'Oh, there is no love-making and young nonsense in our
case--we are not quite such idiots as that comes to; it is just that we
begin to feel the cold, as it were, and are going to camp together to
keep each other warm. That's all."

Mary remained silent.

"Well, I must go," said Deb, jumping up, as if washing her hands of a
disappointing job. "The carriage must be there, and Bob will be
starving for his dinner. No use asking you to join us, I know. But you
must come to Redford soon, Molly--or somewhere out of this--when you
feel better and able. You shall have rooms entirely to yourself, and
needn't see anybody. I will come tomorrow, and you must let me talk to
you about it."

Mrs Goldsworthy was stooping to sweep a sprinkle of ashes out of the
fender--she was like an old maid in her faddy tidiness--and when she
turned, her face was working as if to repress tears. Deb caught her up,
a moan bursting from her lips.

"Oh, what a brute I am! when you--poor, poor old girl!--have to finish
it alone. But, darling, after all, you have had the good years--a child
of your own--a home; we shall get only the dregs at the bottom of the
cup. So it is not so very unfair, is it?" Then Mary's pent emotion
issued in a laugh. With her face on her sister's shoulder, she tried
herself to silence it.

"I can't help it," she apologised. "I would if I could. Debbie, don't
go! Oh, my dear, don't think I envy you! Don't go yet! I want to tell
you something. I may never have another chance." "Of course I won't
go--I want to stay," said Deb at once.

And she stayed. The