There were times, especially during the long winters, when life became almost unbearable for Janet, and she was seized by a desire to run away from Fillmore Street, from the mills, from Hampton itself.  Only she did not know where to go, or how to get away.  She was convinced of the existence in the world of delightful spots where might be found congenial people with whom it would be a joy to talk.  Fillmore Street, certainly, did not contain any such.  The office was not so bad.  It is true that in the mornings, as she entered West Street, the sight of the dark facade of the fortress-like structure, emblematic of the captivity in which she passed her days, rarely failed to arouse in her sensations of oppression and revolt; but here, at least, she discovered an outlet for her energies; she was often too busy to reflect, and at odd moments she could find a certain solace and companionship in the river, so intent, so purposeful, so beautiful, so undisturbed by the inconcinnity, the clatter and confusion of Hampton as it flowed serenely under the bridges and between the mills toward the sea.  Toward the sea!

It was when, at night, she went back to Fillmore Street—­when she thought of the monotony, yes, and the sordidness of home, when she let herself in at the door and climbed the dark and narrow stairway, that her feet grew leaden.  In spite of the fact that Hannah was a good housekeeper and prided herself on cleanliness, the tiny flat reeked with the smell of cooking, and Janet, from the upper hall, had a glimpse of a thin, angular woman with a scrawny neck, with scant grey hair tightly drawn into a knot, in a gingham apron covering an old dress bending over the kitchen stove.  And occasionally, despite a resentment that fate should have dealt thus inconsiderately with the family, Janet felt pity welling within her.  After supper, when Lise had departed with her best young man, Hannah would occasionally, though grudgingly, permit Janet to help her with the dishes.

“You work all day, you have a right to rest.”

“But I don’t want to rest,” Janet would declare, and rub the dishes the harder.  With the spirit underlying this protest, Hannah sympathized.  Mother and daughter were alike in that both were inarticulate, but Janet had a secret contempt for Hannah’s uncomplaining stoicism.  She loved her mother, in a way, especially at certain times,—­though she often wondered why she was unable to realize more fully the filial affection of tradition; but in moments of softening, such as these, she was filled with rage at the thought of any woman endowed with energy permitting herself to be overtaken and overwhelmed by such a fate as Hannah’s:  divorce, desertion, anything, she thought, would have been better—­anything but to be cheated out of life.  Feeling the fires of rebellion burning hotly within her,—­rebellion against environment and driving necessity she would glance at her mother and ask herself whether it were