or was locked; within, lamps and fires
burned cheerily. At half-past six, Nancy--she occupied the two front
rooms--sat in her parlour, resting after the exertion of putting her
son to bed. To judge from her countenance, she was well and happy. The
furniture about her aimed at nothing but homely comfort; the pictures
and books, being beyond dispute her own, had come from Grove Lane.

Save when Tarrant was here, Nancy and Mary of course lived like friends
who share a house, eating together and generally sitting together.
During an hour or two each day the younger woman desired solitude, for a
reason understood by her companion, who then looked after the baby. This
present evening Nancy had proposed to spend alone; but, after sitting
idly for a few minutes, she opened the door and called Mary--just then
occupied in teaching a young servant how to iron.

'I shall not write, after all,' she said, when her friend came. 'I'm too
tired. Bring your sewing, or your book, here.'

Mary was never talkative; Nancy kept a longer silence than usual.

'How,' she exclaimed at length, 'do poor women with a lot of children
manage? It really is a mystery to me. Here am I with one baby, and with
the constant help of two people; yet he tires me out. Not a troublesome
baby, either; healthy and good-tempered. Yet the thought and anxiety and
downright hard labour for a good twelve hours out of the twenty-four! I
feel that a second child would be too much for me.'

She laughed, but looked seriously for the reply.

'Poor mothers,' said Mary, 'can't give the same care to their children
that you give to baby. The little ones grow up, or they don't grow
up--that's what it comes to.'

'Yes; that is to say, only the fit survive. A very good thing--when
other people's children are in question. But I should kill myself in
taking care of them, if I had a large family.'

'I have known mothers who did,' Mary remarked.

'It comes to this. Nature doesn't intend a married woman to be anything
_but_ a married woman. In the natural state of things, she must either
be the slave of husband and children, or defy her duty. She can have no
time to herself, no thoughts for herself. It's a hard saying, but who
can doubt that it is Nature's law? I should like to revolt against it,
yet I feel revolt to be silly. One might as well revolt against being
born a woman instead of a man.'

Mary reflected, but held her peace.

'Then comes in money,' pursued Nancy, 'a