s unfolds its simple blossom, answering some heavenly
call for color. So, too, this other flower of womanhood.

Jennie was left alone, but, like the wood-dove, she was a voice of
sweetness in the summer-time. Going about her household duties, she
was content to wait, without a murmur, the fulfilment of that process
for which, after all, she was but the sacrificial implement. When her
duties were lightest she was content to sit in quiet meditation, the
marvel of life holding her as in a trance. When she was hardest
pressed to aid her mother, she would sometimes find herself quietly
singing, the pleasure of work lifting her out of herself. Always she
was content to face the future with a serene and unfaltering courage.
It is not so with all women. Nature is unkind in permitting the minor
type to bear a child at all. The larger natures in their maturity
welcome motherhood, see in it the immense possibilities of racial
fulfilment, and find joy and satisfaction in being the hand-maiden of
so immense a purpose.

Jennie, a child in years, was potentially a woman physically and
mentally, but not yet come into rounded conclusions as to life and her
place in it. The great situation which had forced her into this
anomalous position was from one point of view a tribute to her
individual capacity. It proved her courage, the largeness of her
sympathy, her willingness to sacrifice for what she considered a
worthy cause. That it resulted in an unexpected consequence, which
placed upon her a larger and more complicated burden, was due to the
fact that her sense of self-protection had not been commensurate with
her emotions. There were times when the prospective coming of the
child gave her a sense of fear and confusion, because she did not know
but that the child might eventually reproach her; but there was always
that saving sense of eternal justice in life which would not permit
her to be utterly crushed. To her way of thinking, people were not
intentionally cruel. Vague thoughts of sympathy and divine goodness
permeated her soul. Life at worst or best was beautiful--had
always been so.

These thoughts did not come to her all at once, but through the
months during which she watched and waited. It was a wonderful thing
to be a mother, even under these untoward conditions. She felt that
she would love this child, would be a good mother to it if life
permitted. That was the problem--what would life permit?

There were many things to