she had learned more quickly than other women,
as though the spectre of the unhappy Janet stood always at her side to
help her to a deeper understanding and a sincerer pity. She knew now
that if she loved Abel, it was because all other interests and emotions
had faded like the perishable bloom on the meadow before the solid, the
fundamental fact of her need of him.

"Do you still get books from the library in Applegate?" she asked
because she could think of nothing to say that sounded less trivial.

"Sometimes, and second hand ones from a dealer I've found there. One
corner of the mill is given up to them."

Again there was silence, and then she said impulsively in her old
childlike way.

"Abel, have you ever forgiven me?"

"There was nothing to forgive. You see, I've learned, Molly."

"What you've learned is that I wasn't worth loving, I suppose?"

He laughed softly. "The truth is, I never knew how much you were worth
till I gave you up," he answered.

"It was the same way with me--that's life, perhaps."

"That sounded like my mother. You're too young to have learned what it
means."

"I don't believe I was ever young--I seem to have known about the
sadness of life from my cradle. That was why I wanted so passionately
some of its gaiety. I remember I used to think that Paris meant gaiety,
but when we went there I couldn't get over my surprise because of all
the ragged people and the poor, miserable horses. They spoiled it to
me."

"The secret is not to look, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes. Jonathan never looked. It all depends, he used to tell me--upon
which set of facts I chose to regard--and he calls it philosophical not
to regard any but pleasant ones."

"Perhaps he's right, but isn't it, after all, a question of the way he's
made?"

"Everything is; grandfather used to say that was why he was never able
to judge people. Life was woven of many colours, like Joseph's coat,
he once told me, and we could make dyes run, but we couldn't wash them
entirely out. He couldn't make himself resentful when he tried--not even
with--with Mr. Jonathan."

"Have you ever forgiven him, Molly?"

"I've sometimes thought that he was sorry at the end--but how could that
undo the way he treated my mother? Being sorry when you're dying doesn't
help things you've hurt in life--but, then, grandfather would have said,
I suppose, that it was life, not Mr. Jonathan, that was to blame. And
I can see, too, in a way, that we sometim