d drive it home so truly, I would
excuse him for ever from politics and the law, and bid him sit at home
with his work-basket minding the world's business in its cradle. It is
only because men cannot stick to the point that life puts them off with
the little jobs which shift and change color with every generation. But
the great point of life which never changes was given from the first
into woman's keeping because, as all the divine powers of reason knew,
only she could be trusted to stick to it. I should be glad to have your
opinion, Jane, as to whether this is true or not.

Jane: Yes, Martin, I am convinced it is true.

Martin: Then let the men shilly-shally as much as they like. And so, as
long as the cradle is there to be minded, we shall have proved that out
of two differences unions can spring. My buttonhole feels empty. What
about my button?

Jane: I was just about to break off the thread when you--

Martin: When I what?

Jane: Sighed.

Martin: Was it a sigh? Did I sigh? How unreasonable of me. What was I
sighing for? Do you know?

Jane: Of course I know.

Martin: Will you tell me?

Jane: That's enough. (And she tried to break off the thread.)

Martin: Ah, but you mustn't keep your wisdom to yourself. Give me the
key, dear Jane.

Jane: The key?

Martin: Because how else can the clouds which overshadow our stories be
cleared away? How else can we allay our doubts and our confusions and
our sorrows if you who are wise, and see motives so clearly, will not
give us the key? Why did I sigh, Jane? And why does Gillian sigh? And,
oh, Jane, why are you sighing? Do you know?

Jane: Of course I know.

Martin: And won't you give me the key?

Jane: That's quite enough.

And this time she broke off the thread. And she put the needle in and
out of the pinked flannel in her housewife, and she tucked the thimble
in its place. And then she felt in a little pocket where something
clinked against her scissors, and Martin watched her. And she took it
out and put it in his hand. And his hand tightened again over hers and
he said gravely, "Is it a needle?"

"No, it is not," said Jane primly, "but it's very much to the point."

"Oh, you wise woman!" whispered Martin (and Jane colored with
satisfaction, because she was turned seventeen). "What would poor men
do without your help?"

Then he kissed very respectfully the hand that had pricked him: on the
back and on the palm and on the four fingers and thumb and o