d to wait
until--now. Although I didn't give him any explanation, he wants me to
know that he trusts me, he understands--it's because, he says, I am what
I am. He still wishes to marry me, to take care of me and the child. We
could live in California, at first--he's always been anxious to go there,
he says."

"Well, my dear?" Augusta Maturin forced herself to say at last.

"It's so generous--so like him!" Janet exclaimed. "But of course I
couldn't accept such a sacrifice, even if--" She paused. "Oh, it's made
me so sad all summer to think that he's unhappy because of me!"

"I know, Janet, but you should realize, as I told you in Silliston, that
it isn't by any deliberate act of your own, it's just one of those things
that occur in this world and that can't be foreseen or avoided." Augusta
Maturin spoke with an effort. In spite of Janet's apparent calm, she had
never been more acutely aware of the girl's inner suffering.

"I know," said Janet. "But it's terrible to think that those things we
unintentionally do, perhaps because of faults we have previously
committed, should have the same effect as acts that are intentional."

"The world is very stupid. All suffering, I think, is brought about by
stupidity. If we only could learn to look at ourselves as we are! It's a
stupid, unenlightened society that metes out most of our punishments and
usually demands a senseless expiation." Augusta Maturin waited, and
presently Janet spoke again.

"I've been thinking all summer, Mrs. Maturin. There was so much I wanted
to talk about with you, but I wanted to be sure of myself first. And now,
since the baby came, and I know I'm not going to get well, I seem to see
things much more clearly."

"Why do you say you're not going to get well, Janet? In this air, and
with the child to live for!"

"I know it. Dr. McLeod knows it, or he wouldn't be staying here, and
you've both been too kind to tell me. You've been so kind, Mrs. Maturin
--I can't talk about it. But I'm sure I'm going to die, I've really known
it ever since we left Silliston. Something's gone out of me, the thing
that drove me, that made me want to live--I can't express what I mean any
other way. Perhaps it's this child, the new life--perhaps I've just been
broken, I don't know. You did your best to mend me, and that's one thing
that makes me sad. And the thought of Mr. Insall's another. In some ways
it would have been worse to live--I couldn't have ruined his life. And