Poor child, to come forth from his own illness to such sorry news, his sister dead. The only joy in his life is stilled, and he scarcely old enough to understand why. Bitterly he weeps in my arms. "I want Urwen," he weeps. "Why did she die? Why did I not die?" I have no answer.

In my own rough arms I hold him, as his bitter tears wet my shirt. His father's grief has turned to vengeance, his mother's has turned to ice. Why is it left to me, the lowliest person of the household to wipe his tears?