But these recollections she would dismiss with excuses for her sister.  “There are two kinds of women,” Ethel sagely told herself.  “Mothers and wives.  And she was a wife.  It may be I’m a mother.”  And little by little, in spite of herself, her worship of her sister changed to a pitying tolerance.  The question, “Shall I ever be like that? “—­once so full of eagerness—­had already been answered unconsciously.  “Poor Amy, she’s dead.  She lived her life.  I’m going to live another.”

Just what life it was to be was as unsettled as before.  For as she grew used to this mothering, the old adventurous hunger for life welled up again within her.  For long periods she forgot the child and sat frowning into space, her mind groping restlessly for ways and means to find herself and get friends of her own, independence, work and gaiety, a chance to grow and “be somebody here!” She had her angry, baffled moods.

But from these Susette would bring her back.  “What’s your life to be, you poor little dear?  And if you don’t worry, why should I!” And resolutely she would turn to the small, absorbing life of the child.

This went on for many months.  It changed her feeling toward the town, for now she had a foothold here.  It changed her feeling toward Amy, whose picture had begun to blur.  But that queer sensation of intimacy, of being in her sister’s place, was even deeper than before.  For now she was mothering Amy’s child—­her child and her husband.

CHAPTER VIII

For a time she had seen little of Joe.  She had been absorbed in her new work; and Joe, in his business troubles.  But as he began to see light ahead, again he took notice of things at home; and rather to his own surprise he enjoyed the change that had been made.  The simpler ways appealed to him.  He and Emily got on famously.  And he began to notice Susette, to come home early now and then, in time to see her take her bath or to sit on the floor and build houses of blocks, he knew about building houses, and he could do fascinating things which made his small daughter stare at him in grave admiration.

“How dear he is with her,” Ethel thought.  Although she was barely aware of the fact, her own new tenderness for the child had tightened the bonds between her and its father.  His blunt, affectionate kindliness appealed to her often in a way that even brought little qualms of doubt.  She would look at Joe occasionally in a thoughtful, questioning manner.

He stayed home again in the evenings now; and while she sat at her sewing, often he would look up from his paper or his work to make some brief remark to her; and the conversation thus begun would somehow ramble on and on while his work lay forgotten.  But almost always, unknown to them both, the spirit of Amy was in the room, and the influence of her memory was shown in Joe’s attitude toward his home.  For in spite of his enjoyment of the simpler regime, he revealed a feeling of guiltiness at not being able to give to Ethel the easy lot he hind given his wife.  As business improved he began to suggest getting back a nurse and a waitress.  And it was all that Ethel could do to dissuade him.