her mind like a weariness.  She had had no word from him, and the little photograph that he had laughingly offered had been her only consolation.  Yes, well, why hadn’t he written?  Quickly her love urged his excuse.  She might accuse him of having forgotten her, but to herself she explained and pardoned all.  That was not for this moment.  Keith was not in fault.  It was this dreadful difficulty of occasion, binding her here when her heart was with him.  To sit moping here by the fire when Keith called to her!  Duty—­the word was a mockery.  “They” would say she ought to stay.  Hidden voices throbbed the same message into her consciousness.  But every eager impulse, winged with love, bade her go.  To whom was her heart given?  To Pa?  Pity ... pity. ...  She pitied him, helpless at home.  If anything happened to him!  Nothing would happen.  What could happen?  Supposing she had gone to the chandler’s shop:  in those few minutes all might happen that could happen in all the hours she was away.  Yet Emmy often ran out, leaving Pa alone.  He was in bed, asleep; he would not awaken, and would continue to lie there at rest until morning.  Supposing she had gone to bed—­she would still be in the house; but in no position to look after Pa.  He might die any night while they slept.  It was only the idea of leaving him, the superstitious idea that just because she was not there something would happen.  Suppose she didn’t go; but sat in the kitchen for two hours and then went to bed.  Would she ever forgive herself for letting slip the chance of happiness that had come direct from the clouds’?  Never!  But if she went, and something did happen, would she ever in that event know self-content again in all the days of her life?  Roughly she shouldered away her conscience, those throbbing urgencies that told her to stay.  She was to give up everything for a fear?  She was to let Keith go for ever?  Jenny wrung her hands, drawing sobbing breaths in her distress.

Something made her pick the letter swiftly up and read it through a second time.  So wild was the desire to go that she began to whimper, kissing the letter again and again, holding it softly to her cold cheek.  Keith!  What did it matter?  What did anything matter but her love?  Was she never to know any happiness?  Where, then, was her reward?  A heavenly crown of martyrdom?  What was the good of that?  Who was the better for it?  Passionately Jenny sobbed at such a mockery of her overwhelming impulse.  “They” hadn’t such a problem to solve.  “They” didn’t know what it was to have your whole nature craving for the thing denied.  “They” were cowards, enemies to freedom because they liked the music of their manacles!  They could not understand what it was to love so that one adored the beloved.  Not blood, but water ran in their veins!  They didn’t know. ...  They couldn’t feel.  Jenny knew, Jenny felt; Jenny was racked with the sweet passion that blinds the eyes to consequences.  She must go!  Wickedness might be her nature:  what then?  It was a sweet wickedness.  It was her choice!