rited and self-reliant as she was, there were days when she
longed with intolerable heartache for the silent sympathy of a mother's
presence.

It is singular how lonely a woman of this nature can be in a gay and
friendly world. She had her interests, to be sure. As she regained her
strength she took up her social duties, and she tried to resume her
studies, her music, her reading, and she occupied herself more and more
with the charities and the fortunes of her friends who were giving their
lives to altruistic work. But there was a sense of unreality in all
this. The real thing was the soul within, the longing, loving woman
whose heart was heavy and unsatisfied. Jack was so lovable, he had in
his nature so much nobility, if the world did not kill it, her life
might be so sweet, and so completely fulfill her girlish dreams. All
these schemes of a helpful, altruistic life had been in her dream, but
how empty it was without the mutual confidence, the repose in the one
human love for which she cared.

Though she was not alone, she had no confidant. She could have none.
What was there to confide? There was nothing to be done. There was
no flagrant wrong or open injustice. Some women in like circumstances
become bitter and cynical. Others take their revenge in a career
reckless, but within social conventions, going their own way in a sort
of matrimonial truce. These are not noticeable tragedies. They are
things borne with a dumb ache of the heart. There are lives into which
the show of spring comes, but without the song of birds or the scent of
flowers. They are endured bravely, with a heroism for which the world
does not often give them credit. Heaven only knows how many noble
women-noble in this if in nothing else--carry through life this burden
of an unsatisfied heart, mocked by the outward convention of love.

But Edith had one confidant--the boy. And he was perfectly safe; he
would reveal nothing. There were times when he seemed to understand,
and whether he did or not she poured out her heart to him. Often in the
twilight she sat by him in this silent communion. If he were asleep--and
he was not troubled with insomnia--he was still company. And when he was
awake, his efforts to communicate the dawning ideas of the queer world
into which he had come were a never-failing delight. He wanted so many
more things than he could ask for, which it was his mother's pleasure to
divine; later on he would ask for so many things he