faith in the great militant book on Puritanism.
Thinking about it, when it had been quite out of her mind for a few
days, she saw the project in a light of such absurdity that, in spite
of herself, she laughed. It was laughter that pained her, like a sob.
No, that was not the kind of work for him. What was?

She would think rather of her child and its future. If Clarence
lived--if he lived--she herself would take charge of his education for
the first years. She must read the best books that had been written on
the training of children's minds; everything should be smoothed for him
by skilful methods. There could be little doubt that he would prove a
quick child, and the delight of watching his progress! She imagined him
a boy of ten, bright, trustful, happy; he would have no nearer friend
than his mother; between him and her should exist limitless confidence.
But a firm hand would be necessary; he would exhibit traits inherited
from his father--

Cecily remembered the day when she first knew that she did not wish him
to be altogether like his father. Perhaps in no other way could she
have come to so clear an understanding of Reuben's character--at all
events, of those parts of it which had as yet revealed themselves in
their wedded life. She thought of him with an impartiality which had
till of late been impossible. And then it occurred to her: Had the same
change come over his mind concerning her? Did he feel secret
dissatisfactions? If he had a daughter, would he say to himself that in
this and that he would wish her not to resemble her mother?

About once in three months they received a letter from Miriam,
addressed always to Cecily. She was living still with the Spences, and
still in Italy. Her letters offered no explanation of this singular
fact; indeed, they threw as little light as was possible on the state
of her mind, so brief were they, and so closely confined to statements
of events. Still, it was clear that Miriam no longer shrank from the
study of profane things. Of Bartles she never spoke.

Mrs. Spence also wrote to Cecily, the kind of letter to be expected
from her, delightful in the reading and pleasant in the memory. But she
said nothing significant concerning Miriam.

"Would they welcome us, if we went to see them?" Cecily asked, one
cheerless day this winter--it was Clarence's birthday.

"You can't take the child," answered Reuben, with some discontent.

"No; I should not dare to. And it is ju