love without attracting love--to drain all the blood out of
her life in necessary sacrifices; to wither that some one else might
have a chance to grow. Those possibilities were all there before these
two solemn, staring, little helpless things on the bed. What toys of
Chance they were!

She'd never thought of them like that before. The baby she had looked
forward to--the baby she hadn't had--had never been thought of that way
either. It was to be something to provide her, Rose, with an occupation;
to enable her to interpret her life in new terms; to make an alchemic
change in the very substance of it. The transmutation hadn't taken
place. She surmised now, dimly, that she hadn't deserved it should.

"You've never had a mother at all, you poor little mites," she said.
"But you're going to have one some day. You're going to be able to come
to her with your troubles, because she'll have had troubles herself.
She'll help you bear your hurts, because she's had hurts of her own. And
she'll be able to teach you to stand the gaff, because she's stood it
herself."

For the first time since they were born, she was thinking of their need
of her rather than of her need of them and with that thought, came for
the first time, the surge of passionate maternal love that she had
waited for, so long in vain. There was, suddenly, an intolerable ache in
her heart that could only have been satisfied by crushing them up
against her breast; kissing their hands--their feet.

Rose stood there quivering, giddy with the force of it. "Oh, you
darlings!" she said. "But wait--wait until I deserve it!" And without
touching them at all, she went to the door and opened it. Mrs. Ruston
and Doris were both waiting in the hall.

"I must go now," she said. "Good-by. Keep them carefully for me." Her
voice was steady, and though her eyes were bright, there was no trace of
tears upon her cheeks. But there was a kind of glory shining in her face
that was too much for Doris, who turned away and sobbed loudly. Even
Mrs. Ruston's eyes were wet.

"Good-by," said Rose again, and went down composedly enough to her car.

She rode down to the station, shook hands with and said good-by to
Otto, the chauffeur, allowed the porter to carry her bag into the
waiting-room. There she tipped the porter, picked up the bag herself,
and walked out the other door; crossed over to Clark Street and took a
street-car. At Chicago Avenue she got off and walked north, keeping her