es ahead, when one has to be middle-aged, and
elderly, and old... Think how thankful you'll be at forty, when the boy
comes of age. Think how thankful you'll be at fifty, when the
grandchildren begin to appear. Think what a far-off tale it will seem
at sixty, when you don't want romance any more, but just to be quiet,
and comfortable, and respected. And when you are seventy--"

Cassandra stopped her with a hasty hand.

"I'm not a bit interested in what I shall feel at seventy. I want to be
happy _now_. I could say all these things to you, Grizel, if you were
in my place, but they wouldn't help. I want to be loved!"

Grizel sighed. She knew better than to advance the reality of her own
affection at that moment, for the truest friendship on earth can never
feel the gap left by love. There was only one person on earth who in
any fashion could console Cassandra for Peignton's loss, and he was the
one for whom she was making her sacrifice. The glimpse she had had of
Bernard junior during an exeat spent at home, was not inspiring, but
Grizel's indomitable optimism surmounted all difficulties.

"The boy will love you, darling," she said softly. "That will come! He
is getting to the age when he will appreciate your beauty, and that
means so much. He will begin by being proud of you, and the rest will
follow. And he will mean more to you after this. When you have
sacrificed so much for a person, he becomes more precious... You'll
grow together. I know it, I feel it! In a few years' time he will be
your devoted companion. I'm going to have a son like that myself some
day, but I shan't have the right to him that you have. I shan't have
paid such a big price!"

The tears welled slowly into Cassandra's eyes. She turned her head
aside, and sat gazing into the mist of green which formed the outer
world. A son's love would be sweet, but it was at present merely a
possibility, while Dane's love was real, and near, and strong. And
other women had both! Blessed women on whom husbands and sons waited
with rival devotion. The bitter problem of inequality, old as the earth
itself, tore at Cassandra's heart, demanding why she should starve,
while others sat at a feast; why the narrow path should sometimes be
strewn with flowers, and again with jagged stones. She fought it out in
her mind while Grizel sat waiting, but to-day she had no power to find
comfort for herself. Body and mind alike were spent and weary.