“I mean, John, that in your heart you are hardly judging Jane fairly.  I notice in you, as well as in the general run of husbands, that if they hev to suffer at all, they tell themselves that it is their wife’s fault, and they manage to believe it.  It’s queer but then it’s a man’s way.”

“You think I should be kinder to Jane?”

“Thou art kind enough in a way.  A mother might nurse her baby as often as it needed nursing, but if she never petted it and kissed it, never gave it smiles and little hugs and simple foolish baby talk, it would be a badly nursed and a very much robbed child.  Do you understand?”

“You think I ought to give Jane more petting?”

Mrs. Hatton smiled and nodded.  “She calls it sympathy, John, but that is what she means.  Hev a little patience, my dear lad.  Listen!  There is a grand wife and a grand mother in Jane Hatton.  If you do not develop them, I, your mother, will say, ‘somehow it is John’s fault.’”

Now life will always be to a large extent what we make it.  Jane was trying with all her power to make her life lovable and fair, and the beginning of all good is action, for in this warfare they who would win must struggle.  Hitherto, since Martha’s death, she had found in nascent, indolent self-pity the choicest of luxuries.  Now she had abandoned this position and with courage and resolve was devoting herself to her husband and her house.  Unfortunately, there were circumstances in John’s special business cares that gave an appearance of Duncan Grey’s wooing to all her efforts—­when the lassie grew kind, Duncan grew cool.  It was truly only an appearance, but Jane was not familiar with changes in Love’s atmosphere.  John’s steadfast character had given her always fair weather.

In reality the long strain of business cares and domestic sorrow had begun to tell even upon John’s perfect health and nervous system.  Facing absolute ruin in the war years and surrounded by pitiable famine and death, he had kept his cheerful temper, his smiling face, his resolute, confident spirit.  Now, he was singularly prosperous.  The mill was busy nearly night and day, all his plans and hopes had been perfected; yet he was often either silent or irritable.  Jane seldom saw him smile and never heard him sing and she feared that he often shirked her company.

One hot morning at the end of August she had a shock.  He had taken his breakfast before she came down and he had left her no note of greeting or explanation.  She ran to a window that overlooked the main avenue and she could see him walking slowly towards the principal entrance.  Her first instinct was to follow him—­to send the house man to delay him—­to bring him back by some or any means.  Once she could and would have done so, but she did not feel it wise or possible then.  What had happened?  She went slowly back to her breakfast, but there was a little ball in her throat—­she could not swallow—­the grief and fear in her heart was surging upward and choking her.