"Why, dear?"

"Because we need money," said Natalie. "No doctor would come here. We
must take father away."

No one recoiled from the idea; but it was new to them all except
Natalie. It took days and days for it to sink in. It was on Dom
Francisco that Natalie most exerted herself. He had aged, and age had
made him weak. He fell a slow, but easy, prey to her youth, grown
sweetly dominant. He himself would arrange to buy the enormous herd of
goats, the greatest in the country-side. And, finally, with a great
shrinking from the definite implication, he agreed to buy back Nadir as
well.

No mere argument could have led the old man to such a concession. It was
love--love for these strangers that he had cherished within his gates,
love for the gloomy man whom he had seen young and then old, love for
Ann and Natalie and mammy, with their quiet ways, love for the very way
of life of all of them--a way distantly above anything he had ever
dreamed before their coming, that drove him, almost against his will, to
speed their parting. He sent for money. He himself spent long, wistful
hours preparing the ox-wagon, the litter, and the horses that were to
bear them away.

Then one night the Reverend Orme slept and awoke no more. In the morning
Natalie went into the room and found her mother sitting very still
beside the bed, one of the Reverend Orme's hands in both of hers. Tears
followed each other slowly down her cheeks. She did not brush them away.

"Mother!" cried Natalie, in the first grip of premonition.