“No,” Julia assented gravely, “I never did.  If my mother had kept me with her—­and she could have done it—­if she hadn’t left my father—­he loved me so—­it would all have been different.  Mothers are strange, Babby, they have so much power—­or seem to!  It seems to me that one could do so much to straighten things out for the poor little baby brains; this is worth while, and this isn’t worth while, and so on!  Suppose”—­Julia poured herself a fresh cup of tea, and leaned back comfortably in her chair—­“suppose you had young daughters, Bab,” said she, “what would you do, differently from your mother, I mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know!” Barbara said, “only it seems funny that mothers can’t help their daughters more.  Half my life is lived now, probably, yet Mother goes right on theorizing, she—­she doesn’t get down to facts, somehow!  I don’t know—­”

“It all comes down to this,” Julia said briskly, as Barbara’s voice trailed into silence, “sitting around and waiting for some one to ask her to marry him is not a sufficiently absorbing life work for the average young woman!”

“She isn’t expected to do anything else,” Barbara added, “except—­ attract.  And it isn’t as if she could be deciding in her own mind about it; the decision is in his mind:  if he chooses he can ask her; if he doesn’t, all right!  It’s a shame—­it’s a shame, I say, not to give her a more dignified existence than that!”

“Yes, but, Bab, your mother couldn’t have put you into a shop to sell ribbons, or made a telephone girl of you!”

“No; my brothers didn’t sell ribbons, or go on a telephone board, either.  But I don’t see why I shouldn’t have studied medicine, like Jim and Richie, or gone into the office at the works in Yolo City, like Ned.”

“Yes, but, Babby, you’ve no leaning toward medicine!”

“Well, then, something else, just as Jim would have done something else, in that case!  Office hours and responsibility, and meeting of men in some other than a social way.  You and I have somehow dragged a solution out of it, Julie:  we are happy in spite of all the blundering and stumbling, but I’ve not got my Mother to thank for it, and neither have you!”

“No, neither have I!” Julia said, with a long sigh, and for a few moments they both watched the coals in silence.  The room was quite dark now; the firelight winked like a drowsy eye; here and there the gold of a picture frame or the smooth curve of a bit of copper or brassware twinkled.  The windows showed opaque squares of dull gray; elsewhere was only heavy shadow, except where Barbara’s white gown made a spot of dull relief in the gloom, and Julia’s slipper buckles caught the light.  A great jar of lilacs, somewhere in the room, sent out a subtle and delicious scent.

“Funny world, isn’t it, Julie?”

“Oh, funny!” Julia put out her hand, and met Barbara’s, and their fingers pressed.  “Nothing better in it, Barbara, than a friend like you!” she said affectionately.