Janet considered this.  “I never thought of that.  I suppose not,” she agreed.

Mrs. Maturin glanced at her.  “So you liked Sflliston,” she said.

“I liked it better than any place I ever saw.  I haven’t seen many places, but I’m sure that few can be nicer.”

“What did you like about it, Janet?” Mrs. Maturin was interested.

“It’s hard to say,” Janet replied, after a moment.  “It gave me such a feeling of peace—­of having come home, although I lived in Hampton.  I can’t express it.”

“I think you’re expressing it rather well,” said Mrs. Maturin.

“It was so beautiful in the spring,” Janet continued, dropping the coat she held into the drawer.  “And it wasn’t just the trees and the grass with the yellow dandelions, it was the houses, too—­I’ve often wondered why those houses pleased me so much.  I wanted to live in every one of them.  Do you know that feeling?” Mrs. Maturin nodded.  “They didn’t hurt your eyes when you looked at them, and they seemed to be so much at home there, even the new ones.  The new ones were like the children of the old.”

“I’ll tell the architect.  He’ll be pleased,” said Mrs. Maturin.

Janet flushed.

“Am I being silly?” she asked.

“No; my dear,” Mrs. Maturin replied.  “You’ve expressed what I feel about Silliston.  What do you intend to do when the strike is over?”

“I hadn’t thought.”  Janet started at the question, but Mrs. Maturin did not seem to notice the dismay in her tone.  “You don’t intend to—­to travel around with the I. W. W. people, do you?”

“I—­I hadn’t thought,” Janet faltered.  It was the first time Mrs. Maturin had spoken of her connection with Syndicalism.  And she surprised herself by adding:  “I don’t see how I could.  They can get stenographers anywhere, and that’s all I’m good for.”  And the question occurred to her—­did she really wish to?

“What I was going to suggest,” continued Mrs. Maturin, quietly, “was that you might try Silliston.  There’s a chance for a good stenographer there, and I’m sure you are a good one.  So many of the professors send to Boston.”

Janet stood stock still.  Then she said:  “But you don’t know anything about me, Mrs. Maturin.”

Kindliness burned in the lady’s eyes as she replied:  “I know more now —­since you’ve told me I know nothing.  Of course there’s much I don’t know, how you, a stenographer, became involved in this strike and joined the I. W. W. But you shall tell me or not, as you wish, when we become better friends.”

Janet felt the blood beating in her throat, and an impulse to confess everything almost mastered her.  From the first she had felt drawn toward Mrs. Maturin, who seemed to hold out to her the promise of a woman’s friendship—­for which she had felt a life-long need:  a woman friend who would understand the insatiate yearning in her that gave her no rest in her search for a glittering essence never found, that had led her only to new depths of bitterness and despair.  It would destroy her, if indeed it had not already done so.  Mrs. Maturin, Insall, seemed to possess the secret that would bring her peace—­and yet, in spite of something urging her to speak, she feared the risk of losing them.  Perhaps, after all, they would not understand! perhaps it was too late!