Miriam, when she had made inquiries about her brother’s health, took little part in the general conversation, and it was not till late in the evening that she spoke with Cecily in private.

“May I come and sit with you for a few minutes?” Cecily asked, when Miriam was going to her bedroom.

They were far less at ease with each other than when their differences of opinion were a recognized obstacle to intimacy.  Cecily was uncertain how far her sister-in-law had progressed from the old standpoint, and she saw in her even an increase of the wonted reticence.  On her own side there was no longer a warm impulse of sisterly affection.  But her first words, when they were alone together, sounded like an appeal for tender confidence.

“I do so wish you had seen my poor little boy!”

“I wish I had been nearer,” Miriam answered kindly.  “It is very sad that you have suffered such a loss.”

Cecily spoke of the child, and with simple feeling, which made her more like herself than hitherto.

“When a little thing dies at that age,” she said presently, “it is only the mother’s grief.  The father cannot have much interest in so young a child.”

“But Reuben wrote very affectionately of Clarence in one letter I had from him.”

“Yes, but it is natural that he shouldn’t feel the loss as I do.  A man has his business in life; a woman, if she needn’t work for bread, has nothing to do but be glad or sorry for what happens in her home.”

“I shouldn’t have thought you took that view of a woman’s life,” said Miriam, after a silence, regarding the other with uncertain eyes.

“‘Views’ have become rather a weariness to me,” answered Cecily, smiling sadly.  “Sorrow is sorrow to me as much as to the woman who never questioned one of society’s beliefs; it makes me despondent.  No doubt I ought to find all sorts of superior consolations.  But I don’t and can’t.  A woman’s natural lot is to care for her husband and bring up children.  Do you believe, Miriam, that anything will ever take the place of these occupations?”

“I suppose not.  But time will help you, and your interests will come back again.”

“True.  On the other hand, it is equally true that I am now seeing how little those interests really amount to.  They are pastime, if you like, but nothing more.  Some women do serious work, however; I wish I could be one of them.  To them, perhaps, ‘views’ are something real and helpful.  But never mind myself; you were glad to hear that Reuben is working on?”

“Very glad.”

Cecily waited a little; then, watching the other’s face, asked: 

“You know what he is writing?”

“In a general way,” Miriam answered, averting her eyes.  “Do you think he has made a wise choice?”

“I dare say it is the subject on which he will write best,” Cecily answered, smiling.

“I doubt whether he understands it sufficiently,” said Miriam, with balanced tone.  “He has really nothing but prejudice to go upon.  There will be a great deal of misrepresentation in his book—­if he ever finishes it.”