"Oh, mother! has she been naughty?"
"No." Valeria remained on her knees, and put her arm round the child. "Edith is ill," she said slowly.
"Then I will kiss her double," cried Nancy, flushing.
"Nancy, Nancy, try to understand," said Valeria. "Edith is ill, as your father was, and he died; and as her sisters were, and they died. And if you kiss her, you may get ill, too, and die. And every time you kiss her—oh, Nancy, Nancy, child of mine, it is a sword struck into your mother's heart!"
There was a long pause. "And if I refuse to kiss her, will that not be a sword struck into her heart?" asked Nancy.
"Yes," said Valeria.
"And if a sword is in Edith's heart, there will be a sword in grandmother's heart, too?"
"Yes," said Valeria.
A long pause; then Nancy said: "There is a sword for every heart.... I could make a beautiful poetry about that." Her eyes were large, and saw nothing—not her mother, not Edith who was ill—but the bleeding heart of the world, sword-struck and gigantic, and in her ears the lines began to swing and flow.
"Mother of God, help us!" sighed Valeria, shaking her head. "Go to Edith."