“Neither did mother believe in unhappiness,” said Katie, and drew a longer breath for saying it, for it was as if the things claiming her had crowded up around her throat.

Mrs. Prescott sighed.  “We cannot understand those things.  It is a strange age in which we are living, Katie.  I sometimes think that our only hope is to trust God a little more.”

“Or help man a little more,” said Katie.

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Prescott gently, “that giving more trust to God would be giving more help to man.”

“I’m not sure I get the connecting link,” said Katie, more sure of herself now that it had become articulate.

Mrs. Prescott put one of her fine hands over upon Katie’s.  “Why, child, you can’t mean that.  That would have hurt your mother.”

For the moment Katie did not speak.  “If mother had understood just what I meant—­understood all about it—­I don’t believe it would.”  A second time she was silent, as it struggled.  “And if it had”—­she spoke it as a thing not to be lightly spoken—­“I should be very deeply sorry, but I would not be able to help it.”

“Why, child!” murmured her mother’s friend.  “You’re talking strangely.  You—­the devoted daughter you always were—­not able to ‘help’ hurting your mother?”

Katie’s eyes filled.  It had become so real:  the things stealing around her, the thing in her which must push them back, that it was as if she were hurting her mother, and suffering in the consciousness of bringing suffering.  Memory, the tenderest of memories, was another thing weaving itself around her, clinging to her heart, claiming her.

But suddenly she leaned forward.  “Would I be able to help being myself?” she asked passionately.

Mrs. Prescott seemed startled.  “I fear,” she said, perplexed by the tears in Katie’s eyes and the stern line of her mouth, “that we are speaking of things I do not understand.”

Katie was silent, agreeing with her.

Mrs. Prescott broke the silence.  “The world is changing.”

And again agreeing, Katie saw that in those changes friends bound together by dear ties might be driven far apart.

“Katie,” she asked after a moment, “tell me of my boy and your friend.”  There was a wistful, almost tremulous note in her voice.  “You have sympathy and intelligence, Katie.  You must know what a time like this means to a mother.”

Katie could not speak.  It seemed she could bear little more that night.  And she longed for time to think it out, know where she stood, come to some terms with herself.

But forced to face it, she tried to do so lightly.  She thought it just a fancy of Harry’s.  Wasn’t he quite given to falling in love with pretty girls?

His mother shook her head.  “He cares for her.  I know.  And do you not see, Katie, that that makes her about the biggest thing in life to me?”

Katie’s heart almost stood still.  She was staggered.  Through her wretchedness surged a momentary yearning to be one of those people—­oh, one of those safe people—­who never found the peep-holes in their enclosure!