take her like a
disagreeable tonic which may eventually do him good. I could not have
stood it; I'm quite sure _you_ couldn't, but Teresa can. The bull-dog
quality in her won't let go; she can sit tight and wait, and it's the
waiters who win. She will go through a bad time, but in the end--"
Grizel met Cassandra's flashing eyes, and said gently, "Dear! if you had
the choice, wouldn't you rather think of him in the future with a home
and children, happy again, if not just in the same way, rather than as a
lonely man, eating his heart out for what he couldn't have?"

"No!" cried Cassandra defiantly. "No! I want him to remember. I
_want_ him to think. I'd rather anything happened than that he should
forget..."

Then Grizel laughed, a soft, tender little laugh, and looking back on
that scene in the days which followed, Cassandra knew that more than for
any words of comfort, she was grateful for that laugh. There was in it
the tenderness which a nurse bestows upon the railings of pain-racked
sufferers, and with it a beautiful incredulity which refused to believe
mere words, and set her faith on the force within, content to wait until
it should resume the mastery.

The task of a comforter is only less difficult than that of the sufferer
himself. He has need of infinite tenderness, infinite tolerance, above
all, of infinite patience. Not in one hour, or one week, or one month
will his solace work its effect; again and again must he open his heart,
and pour forth all that is his of wisdom, and strength and inspiration,
only to find himself thrown back to the very position from which he
started.

"Oh, Grizel!" cried Cassandra sharply. "Why did you come? Why did you
interrupt us? And oh, what are we to do? What shall we do?"

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE SUMMONS.

Cassandra returned home to fight her battle hour after hour with weary
reiteration. In her mind was one predominating determination,--to be
loyal to the son she had borne, and to bring no shame upon his name, but
against the cold rock of that decision dashed the waves of a passionate
desire. She was starving for love, and the gates of her woman's kingdom
stood open entreating her entrance. All that she had longed for, all
that she had dreamt, was waiting for her; the lifting of a hand would
bring it to pass. Duty faced passion in grim stolidity; passion lashed
itself in fury, only to fall abashed before that impenetrable front.
Cassandra ha