“Privations wouldn’t hurt them,” said Mrs. Burgoyne, sturdily, “if it was only a question of patched boots and made-over clothes and plain food.  They could even have everything in the world that’s worth while.”

“How do you mean?” said Mrs. Lloyd, promptly defensive.

“I’d gather them about me,” mused Sidney Burgoyne, dreamily, her eyes on the sky, a whimsical smile playing about her mouth, “I’d gather all seven together—­”

“Oh, you’ve come down to seven?” chuckled Mrs. Brown.

“Well, seven’s a good Biblical number,” Mrs. Burgoyne said serenely, “—­and I’d say ’Children, all music is yours, all art is yours, all literature is yours, all history and all philosophy is waiting to prove to you that in starting poor, healthy, and born of intelligent and devoted parents, you have a long head-start in the race of life.  All life is ahead of you, friendships, work, play, tramps through the green country in the spring, fires in winter, nights under the summer stars.  Choose what you like, and work for it, your father and I can keep you warm and fed through your childhoods, and after that, nothing can stop you if you are willing to work and wait.”

“And then suppose your son asks you why he can’t go camping with the other boys in summer school, and your daughter wants to join the cotillion?” asked Mrs. Lloyd.

“Why, it wouldn’t hurt them to hear me say no,” said Mrs. Burgoyne, in surprise.  “I never can understand why parents, who practise every imaginable self-denial themselves, are always afraid the first renunciation will kill their child.  Sooner or later they are going to learn what life is.  I know a little girl whose parents are multi-millionaires, and who is going to be told some day soon that her two older sisters aren’t living abroad, as she thinks, but shut up for life, within a few miles of her.  What worse blow could life give to the poorest girl?”

“Horrors!” murmured Mrs. Brown.

“And those are common cases,” Mrs. Burgoyne said eagerly, “I knew of so many!  Pretty little girls at European watering-places whose mothers are spending thousands, and hundreds of thousands of dollars to get out of their blood what no earthly power can do away with.  Sons of rich fathers whose valets themselves wouldn’t change places with them!  And then the fine, clean, industrious middle-classes—­or upper classes, really, for the blood in their veins is the finest in the world—­are afraid to bring children into the world because of dancing cotillions and motor-cars!”

“Well, of course I have only four,” said Mrs. Brown, “but I’ve been married only seven years—­”

Mrs. Burgoyne laughed, came to a full stop, and reddened a little as she went back busily to her sewing.

“Why do you let me run on at such a rate; you know my hobbies now!” she reproached them.  “I am not quite sane on the subject of what ought to be done—­and isn’t—­in that good old institution called woman’s sphere.”