“I hope you have not lost much, mother.”

“O Jane, how could I help losing?  Well then, I have been glad I could give.  When hungry children look at you, they do not need to speak.  My God, Jane!  You must have seen that look—­if it was in Martha’s eyes——­”

Jane caught her breath with a cry, “O mother!  Mother!  Do not say such words!  I should die!”

“Yes.  Many mothers did die.  It was like a knife in their heart.  When did you see John’s mother?”

“The day the children came from Metwold.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“No.”

“Why not?  She has been kind to me.”

“You have given her milk for the children, I suppose.”

“All I could spare.  I do not grudge a drop of it.”

Then Jane laid her arm across her mother’s shoulders and looked lovingly at her.  “I am so glad,” she said.  “You may value money highly, mother, but you can cast it away for higher things.”

“I hope I should never hesitate about that, Jane.  A baby’s life is worth all the money I have”—­and Jane sighed and went home with a new thought in her heart.

She found John and his little daughter in the garden planting bulbs and setting out hardy geraniums.  She joined them, and then she saw the old, steadfast light on her husband’s face and the old sure smile around his mouth.  She put her hand in his hand and looked at him with a question in her loving eyes.  He smiled and nodded slightly and drew her hand through his arm.

“Let us go into the house,” he said.  “The evenings are yet chilly”—­and they walked together silently and were happy without thought or intention of being happy.  A little later as they sat alone, Jane said, “You look so much better than you have done lately, John.  Have you had any good news?”

“Yes, my dear one—­the best of news.”

“Who brought it?”

“One who never yet deceived me.”

“You know it to be true?”

“Beyond a doubt.  My darling, I have been thinking of the sad time you have had here.”

“I hope I have done some good, John.”

“You have done a great deal of good.  The trouble is nearly over, it will be quite over in a few weeks.  Now you could go to London and see your aunt.  A change will do you good.”

“Cannot you and Martha go with me?  You have nothing to do yet.”

“I shall have plenty to do in a short time.  I must be preparing for it.”

“Then I must be content with Martha.  It will be good for the child to have a change.”

“Oh, I could not part with both you and Martha!”

“Nor could I part with both you and Martha.  Besides, who is to watch over the child?  She would be too much alone.  I should be miserable in London without her.”

“I thought while you were in London, I would have the house thoroughly cleaned and renovated.  I would open it up to every wind of heaven and let them blow away all sad, anxious thoughts lurking in the corners and curtains.”