For three years Olwen endured her sister's taunts and the storms of her
daughter and her son-in-law; and then Jennie said: "I'm going to have a
baby." If she was glad and feared to hear this, how much greater was her
joy and how much heavier was her anxiety as Jennie's space grew
narrower? She left over going to the aid of Lisbeth, from whom she took
away the pillows and for whom she did not provide any more toothsome
dishes; she did not go to her aid howsoever frantic the beatings on the
wall or fierce the outcry. Never has a sentry kept a closer look-out
than Olwen for Jennie. Albeit Jennie died, and as Olwen looked at the
hair which was faded from the hue of daffodils into that of tow and at
the face the cream of the skin of which was now like clay, she hated
Lisbeth with the excess that she had loved her.

"My dear child shall go to Heaven like a Princess," she said; and she
sat at her work table to fashion a robe of fine cambric and lace for her
dead.

Disturbed by the noise of the machine, Lisbeth wailed: "You let me
starve but won't let me sleep. Why doesn't any one help me? I'll get the
fever. What have I done?"

Olwen moved to the doorway of the room, her body filling the frame
thereof, her scissors hanging at her side.

"You are wrong, sister, to starve me," Lisbeth said. "To starve me. I
cannot walk you know. You must not blame me if I change my mind about my
money. It was wrong of you."

Olwen did not answer.