“She said women had a hard lot to endure.  She said they were born slaves and died slaves and a good deal more of the same kind of talk.  I told her in reply that women were sent into life to give life, to be, as thou said, mothers of men, and she laughed, a queer kind of laugh though.  Then I added, ’You may like the reason or not, Jane.  You may accept or defy it, but I tell you plainly, motherhood was and is and always will be the chief reason and end of womanhood.’”

“Well, mother?”

“She was unpleasant and sarcastic and said this and that for pure aggravation about the selfishness of men.  So our cup of tea was a bit bitter, and as a last fling she said my muffins were soggy and she would send me her mother’s receipt.  And I have been making muffins for thirty years, John!”

“I am astonished at Jane.  She is usually so careful not to hurt or offend.”

“Well, she forgets once in a while.  I had the best of the argument, for I had only to remind her that it was I who taught her mother how to make muffins and who gave her my receipt for the same.  Then she said, ‘Really,’ and, ‘It is late, I must go!’ And go she did and I have not seen her since.”

“I wish I knew what to do, mother.”

“Go to thy bed now and try to sleep.  This thing is beyond thy ordering or mending.  Leave it to those who are wiser than thou art.  It will be put right at the right time by them.  And don’t meddle with it rashly.  Every step thou takes is like stirring in muddy water—­every step makes it muddier.”

“But I must go to Harlow and see Jane if she does not come home.”

“Thou must not go a step on that road.  If thou does, thou may go on stepping it time without end.  She left thee of her own free will.  Let her come back in the same way.  She is wrong.  If thou wert wrong, I would tell thee so.  Yes, I would be the first to bid thee go to Harlow and say thou wanted to be forgiven and loved again.”

“I believe that, mother.”

“By the Word of Christ, I would!”

“I shall be utterly unhappy if I do not know that she is well.”

“Ask Sewell.  If she is sick he will know and he will tell thee the truth.  Go now and sleep.  Thy pillow may give thee comfort and wisdom.”

“Your advice is always right, mother.  I will take it.”

“Thou art a good man, John, and all that comes to thee shall be good in the fullness of its time and necessity.  Kiss me, thou dear lad!  I am proud to be thy mother.  It is honor enough for Martha Hatton!”

That night John slept sorrowfully and he had the awakening from such a sleep—­the slow, yet sudden realization of his trouble finding him out.  It entered his consciousness with the force of a knockdown blow; he could hardly stand up against it.  Usually he sang or whistled as he dressed himself, and this was so much a habit of his nature that it passed without notice in his household.  Once, indeed, his father had fretfully alluded to it, saying, “Singing out of time is always singing out of tune,” and Mrs. Hatton had promptly answered,