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I used the quickest way to reach the chapel. Through all the gardens I hurried, glancing uneasily at the woods that hid the cemetery. Tree shadows on the ground were beginning to stretch out and cross one another as I neared the chapel door. A strange scent was wafted on the warm summer breezes. Incense. I ran on, reaching the chapel quite out of breath, with my heart pounding. An organ had been installed since I was here last. I stole as quietly as possible into the chapel.

Joel was seated at the organ playing beautifully, showing that once he had been truly a professional musician with remarkable ability. Bart stood up to sing. I relaxed when I saw the twins in the front pew, looking content as they stared up at their uncle, who sang so well it almost stole my fear and gave me peace.

The hymn ended. Automatically the twins went down on their knees and placed their small palms beneath their chins. They seemed cherubs--or lambs for the slaughter.

Why was I thinking that? This was a holy place.

"And lo, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil . . ." spoke Bart, now on his knees. "Repeat after me, Darren, Deirdre."

"And lo, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil," obeyed Deirdre, her high-pitched, small voice leading the way for Darren to follow.

"For thou art with me . . ." instructed Bart. "For thou art with me . . ."

"Thy rod and thy staff shall comfort me."

"Thy rod and thy staff shall comfort me."

I stepped forward. "Bart, what the devil are you doing? This is not Sunday, nor has anyone died."

His bowed head raised. His dark eyes met mine and held such sorrow. "Leave, Mother, please."

I ran to the children, who jumped up. I gathered them into my arms. "We don't like it here," whispered Deirdre. "Hate here."

Joel had risen to his feet. He stood tall and lean in the shadows, with colors from the stained glass falling on his long, gaunt face. He said not a word, just looked me up and down--scathingly.

"Go back to your rooms, Mother, please, please."

"You have no right to teach these children fear of God. When you teach religion, Bart, you speak of God's love, not his wrath."

"They have no fear of God, Mother. You speak of your own fear."

I began to back away, pulling the twins with me. "Someday you are going to understand about love, Bart. You are going to find out it doesn't come because you want it, or need it. It's yours only when you earn it. It comes to you when you least expect it, walks in the door and closes it quietly and when it's right, it stays. You don't plot to find it. Or seduce to try and make it happen. You have to deserve it, or you'll never have anyone who will stay long enough."

His dark eyes looked bleak. He stood, towering up there; then he advanced, taking the three steps down.

"We are all leaving, Bart. That should delight you. None of us will come back to bother you again. Jory and Toni will go with us. You will have come into your own. Every room of this mammoth lonely Foxworth Hall will be all yours. If you wish, Chris will turn over the trusteeship to Joel until you are thirty-five."

For a moment, a brief illuminating moment, fear lit up Bart's face, just as jubilance lit up Joel's watery eyes.

"Have Chris turn the trusteeship over to my attorney," Bart said quickly.

"Yes, if that's what you want." I smiled at Joel, whose face then turned. He shot Bart a hard look of disappointment, confirming my suspicions--he was angry because Bart would take what might have been his . . .

"By morning we will be gone, all of us," I whispered

"Yes, Mother. I wish you godspeed and good luck."

I stared at my second son, who stood three feet from me. Where had I heard that said last? Oh, oh . . . so very long ago. The tall conductor on the night train that brought us here as children. He'd stood on the steps of the sleeper train and called that back to us, and the train had sounded a mournful goodbye whistle.

It came to me as I met Bart's brooding gaze that I should speak my parting words now, in this chapel of his building, and forget about saying anything tomorrow when I was likely to cry.

He spoke first. "Mothers always seem to run and leave the sons to suffer. Why are you deserting me?"

The tone of his throaty voice, full of pain, filled me with suffering. Still I said what I had to say. "Because you deserted me years ago," I answered brokenly. "I love you, Bart. I've always loved you, though you don't want to believe that. Chris loves you. But you don't want his love. You tell yourself each day you live that your own natural father would have been a better father--but you don't know that he would have been. He wasn't faithful to his wife, my mother--and I wasn't his first dalliance. I don't want to speak disrespectfully of a man whom I loved very much at the time, but he wasn't the same kind of man Chris is. He wouldn't have given you so much of himself."

The sun through the windows turned Bart's face fire-red. His head moved from side to side. Tormented again. At his sides his hands clenched into tight fists. "Don't say one word more!" he shouted. "He's the father I want, have always wanted! Chris has given me nothing but shame and embarrassment. Get out! I'm glad you're leaving. Take your filth with you and forget I exist!"

Hours passed, and still Chris didn't show. I called the university lab. His secretary said he'd left three hours ago. "He should have been there, Mrs. Sheffield."