A little book on ‘employments for women,’ which she saw advertised and bought, merely heightened her discouragement.  Here, doubtless, were occupations she might learn; but, when it came to choosing, and contemplating the practical steps that must be taken, her heart sank.  She was a coward; she dreaded the world; she saw as never yet the blessedness of having money and a secure home.

The word ‘home’ grew very sweet to her ears.  A man, she said to herself, may go forth and find his work, his pleasure, in the highways; but is not a woman’s place under the sheltering roof?  What right had a mother to be searching abroad for tasks and duties?  Task enough, duty obvious, in the tending of her child.  Had she but a little country cottage with needs assured, and her baby cradled beside her, she would ask no more.

How idle all the thoughts of her girlhood!  How little she knew of life as it would reveal itself to her mature eyes!

Fatigued into listlessness, she went to the lending-library, and chose a novel for an hour’s amusement.  It happened that this story was concerned with the fortunes of a young woman who, after many an affliction sore, discovered with notable suddenness the path to fame, lucre, and the husband of her heart:  she became at a bound a successful novelist.  Nancy’s cheek flushed with a splendid thought.  Why should not she do likewise?  At all events—­for modesty was now her ruling characteristic—­why should she not earn a little money by writing Stories?  Numbers of women took to it; not a few succeeded.  It was a pursuit that demanded no apprenticeship, that could be followed in the privacy of home, a pursuit wherein her education would be of service.  With imagination already fired by the optimistic author, she began to walk about the room and devise romantic incidents.  A love story, of course—­and why not one very like her own?  The characters were ready to her hands.  She would begin this very evening.

Mary saw the glow upon her face, the delightful frenzy in her eyes, and wondered.

‘I have an idea,’ said Nancy.  ’Don’t ask me about it.  Just leave me alone.  I think I see my way.’

Daily she secluded herself for several hours; and, whatever the literary value of her labour, it plainly kept her in good spirits, and benefited her health.  Save for the visits to her baby, regular as before, she hardly left home.

Jessica Morgan came very often, much oftener than Nancy desired; not only was her talk wearisome, but it consumed valuable time.  She much desired to see the baby, and Nancy found it difficult to invent excuses for her unwillingness.  When importunity could not be otherwise defeated, she pretended a conscientious scruple.

’I have deceived my husband in telling him that no one knows of our marriage but Mary.  If I let you see the child, I should feel that I was deceiving him again.  Don’t ask me; I can’t.’