The city streets looked dark and gloomy under the steady onslaught of the rain, as the car rolled along.  Julia stared sombrely through the drenched glass, now and then kissing the perfumed top of the little silk cap that covered the drowsy head on her breast.  It was a long trip to Shotwell Street; for all her family’s peculiarities, it was rather a sad trip to-day.  She let her thoughts drift on to the coming changes in her life.  She thought of New York, of the great unknown ocean, of London—­London to Julia meant fog, hansom cabs, and crossings that must be swept.  It was not, she felt, with a certain baffled resentment, what she wanted to do.  London was full of Miss Toland’s friends, and Julia was too sick in spirit to wish to meet them now.  To be alone—­to be alone—­to be alone—­some gasping inner spirit prayed continually.  They would go to Oxfordshire, of course.  But Miss Toland would be miserable in the country, she was always miserable in the country.

They were passing Eighteenth Street, passing St. Charles’s shabby little church.  Julia stopped the motor.  She got out and carried the baby up the stairs, and went up the echoing aisle to a front pew, where Anna could sit and stare about her.  Julia, panting, dropped on her knees.  The big edifice was empty, and smelled of damp plaster, rain rattled the high windows.  The afternoon was so dark that the sanctuary light sent a little pool of quivering red to the floor below.

After a while a very plain young woman came out of the vestry, and walking up the steps to the main altar, carried away one of the great candlesticks.  She was presently joined by a little nun; the two whispered unsmilingly together, came and went fifty times with flowers, with candles, with fresh altar linen.

Julia could not pray.  Her thoughts would not settle themselves; they drifted back and forth like rippling breezes over grass.  She felt that if she might kneel here an hour she could begin to pray.  Now a thousand little things distracted her:  the odour of the church, the crisping feet of some one entering the church far behind her, the odour of the damp glove upon which she rested her cheek.

Life troubled her; she was afraid.  She had thought it lay plain and straight before her; now all her guide posts were gone, and all her pathways led into deeper and deeper uncertainty.  The utter confusion into which she had been thrown made even her own identity indefinite to her; she suffered less for this bewilderment.  If by the mere raising of her hand she might have brought Jim back to her, she would not have raised that hand; not now, not until some rule that would adjust their relationship was found.  Her marriage seemed a dream, their love as strange and remote as their separation.

Only Anna seemed real, and as much a sorrow as a joy just now.  To what heritage would the beautiful, mysterious little personality unfold?  What of the swiftly coming time when she would ask questions?