theological dogma of
damnation. It was terrible, when they thought of it, but they seldom
thought of it, thereby securing tranquillity of mind in the face of both
facts and dogmas. Even Virginia had ceased to make her first question
when she met Susan, "How is your mother?"

"But, Susan, you need the exercise. I thought that was why the doctor
made Uncle Cyrus get you a horse."

"It was, but I only go for an hour in the afternoon. I begrudge every
minute I spend away from mother. Oh, Jinny, she is so pathetic! It
almost breaks my heart to watch her."

"I know, dearest," said Virginia; but at the back of her brain she was
thinking, "They looked so happy together, yet he could never really
admire Abby. She isn't at all the kind of woman he likes."

So preoccupied was she by this problem of her own creation, that her
voice had a strangely far off sound, as though it came from a distance.
"I wish I could help you, dear Susan. If you ever want me, day or night,
you know you have only to send for me. I'd let nothing except desperate
illness stand in the way of my coming."

It was true, and because she knew that it was true, Susan stooped
suddenly and kissed her.

"You are looking tired, Jinny. What is the matter?"

"Nothing except that I'm a sight in this old waist. I made it over to
save buying one, but I wish now I hadn't. It makes me look so settled."

"You need some clothes, and you used to be so fond of them."

"That was before the children came. I've never cared much since. It's
just as if life were a completed circle, somehow. There's nothing more
to expect or to wait for--you'll understand what I mean some day,
Susan."

"I think I do now. But only women are like that? Men are different----"

It was the classic phrase again, but on Susan's lips it sounded with a
new significance.

"And some women are different, too," replied Virginia. "Now there's Abby
Goode--Susan, what do you honestly think of Abby?"

There was a wistful note in the question, and around her gentle blue
eyes appeared a group of little lines, brought out by the nervous
contraction of her forehead. Was it the wan, smoky light of the
dusk?--Susan wondered, or was Virginia really beginning to break so
soon?

"Why, I like Abby. I always did," she answered, trying to look as if she
did not understand what Virginia had meant. "She's a little bit what
John Henry calls 'loud,' but she has a good heart and would do anybody a
kindness."

She