She leaned on the sill and looked out—blue sky, blue bay, a fresh breeze blowing. The peace of it entered into her soul. She seemed to hear her lover's voice. "I think if you called I should hear you."
Her heart called to him now, "Crispin, Crispin." In this crisis she felt the need of his strength and sanity. . . . "Crispin, Crispin."
For the first time since she had read her father's letter her mind worked clearly. It was working, indeed, clearly, for the first time since the night of Winslow's ball. She had been proud to be called "Carew's daughter." Had fashioned herself after his pattern. Had preened herself when she had heard other people say: "She's like him."
Yet it was her mother after whom she should have patterned. And it was the daughter of Elizabeth Musgrove who must act in this emergency. Her mother had said so many times, "Our souls are lamps to guide us." Hildegarde reflected that the light within her own soul was a flickering taper. Would it serve to show the way?
She had no other guide. There was, of course, Aunt Anne. But Aunt Anne must not be brought into this. She loved her brother, blamed him, forgave him. Hildegarde must settle this thing herself.
And settling it meant going away!
To the farm!
Well, why not? The old aunts seemed like rocks of steadfastness in this sea of change. And there was the steadfastness of Crispin. And, above all, the memory of the serenity and steadfastness of her mother.
Oh, she belonged to all that—not to this life of
