“I’m thankful you did come to us!” Augusta Maturin managed to reply.

“You mean—?” Janet exclaimed.

“I mean, that we who have been more—­fortunate don’t look at these things quite as we used to, that the world is less censorious, is growing to understand situations it formerly condemned.  And—­I don’t know what kind of a monster you supposed me to be, Janet.”

“Oh, Mrs. Maturin!”

“I mean that I’m a woman, too, my dear, although my life has been sheltered.  Otherwise, what has happened to you might have happened to me.  And besides, I am what is called unconventional, I have little theories of my own about life, and now that you have told me everything I understand you and love you even more than I did before.”

Save that her breath came fast, Janet lay still against the cushions of the armchair.  She was striving to grasp the momentous and unlooked-for fact of her friend’s unchanged attitude.  Then she asked:—­“Mrs. Maturin, do you believe in God?”

Augusta Maturin was startled by the question.  “I like to think of Him as light, Janet, and that we are plants seeking to grow toward Him—­no matter from what dark crevice we may spring.  Even in our mistakes and sins we are seeking Him, for these are ignorances, and as the world learns more, we shall know Him better and better.  It is natural to long for happiness, and happiness is self-realization, and self-realization is knowledge and light.”

“That is beautiful,” said Janet at length.

“It is all we can know about God,” said Mrs. Maturin, “but it is enough.”  She had been thinking rapidly.  “And now,” she went on, “we shall have to consider what is to be done.  I don’t pretend that the future will be easy, but it will not be nearly as hard for you as it might have been, since I am your friend, and I do not intend to desert you.  I’m sure you will not let it crush you.  In the first place, you will have something to go on with—­mental resources, I mean, for which you have a natural craving, books and art and nature, the best thoughts and the best interpretations.  We can give you these.  And you will have your child, and work to do, for I’m sure you’re industrious.  And of course I’ll keep your secret, my dear.”

“But—­how?” Janet exclaimed.

“I’ve arranged it all.  You’ll stay here this spring, you’ll come to my house on Monday, just as we planned, and later on you may go to Mrs. Case’s, if it will make you feel more independent, and do typewriting until the spring term is over.  I’ve told you about my little camp away up in Canada, in the heart of the wilderness, where I go in summer.  We’ll stay there until the autumn, until your baby comes, and, after that, I know it won’t be difficult to get you a position in the west, where you can gain your living and have your child.  I have a good friend in California who I’m sure will help you.  And even if your secret should eventually be discovered—­which