And then the future!

I seemed to know from the first that it was to be a girl, and already I could see her face and look into her sea-blue eyes.  As she grew up I would talk to her of her father—­the brave explorer, the man of destiny, who laid down his life in a great work for the world.  We should always be talking of him—­we two alone together, because he belonged to us and nobody else in the world besides.  Everything I have written here I should tell her—­at least the beautiful part of it, the part about our love, which nothing in life, and not even death itself, could quench.

Oh the joy of those days!  It may seem strange that I should have been so happy so soon after my bereavement, but I cannot help it if it was so, and it was so.

Perhaps it was a sort of hysteria, due to the great change in my physical condition.  I do not know.  I do not think I want to know.  But one thing is sure—­that hope and prayer and the desire of life awoke in me again, as by the touch of God’s own hand, and I became another and a happier woman.

Such was the condition in which Mildred found me when she returned a few days later.  Then she brought me down plump to material matters.  We had first to consider the questions of ways and means, in order to find out how to face the future.

It was the beginning of January, my appointed time was in June, and I had only some sixteen pounds of my money left, so it was clear that I could not stay in the boarding-house much longer.

Happily Mildred knew of homes where women could live inexpensively during their period of waiting.  They were partly philanthropic and therefore subject to certain regulations, which my resolute determination (not to mention Martin’s name, or permit it to be mentioned) might make it difficult for me to observe, but Mildred hoped to find one that would take me on her recommendation without asking further question.

In this expectation we set out in search of a Maternity Home.  What a day of trial we had!  I shall never forget it.

The first home we called at was a Catholic one in the neighbourhood of our boarding-house.

It had the appearance of a convent, and that pleased me exceedingly.  After we had passed the broad street door, with its large brass plate and small brass grille, we were shown into a little waiting-room with tiled floor, distempered walls, and coloured pictures of the saints.

The porteress told us the Mother was at prayers with the inmates, but would come downstairs presently, and while we waited we heard the dull hum of voices, the playing of an organ, and the singing of the sweet music I knew so well.

Closing my eyes I felt myself back in Rome, and began to pray that I might be permitted to remain there.  But the desire was damped when the Mother entered the room.

She was a stout woman, wearing heavy outdoor boots and carrying her arms interlaced before her, with the hands hidden in the ample sleeves of her habit, and her face was so white and expressionless, that it might have been cast in plaster of Paris.