“He asks me to believe what—­I’ve done makes no difference to him.  Of course he doesn’t put it in so many words, but he says he doesn’t care anything about conventions,” Janet continued slowly.  “What I told him when he asked me to marry him in Silliston was a shock to him, it was so —­so unexpected.  He went away, to Maine, but as soon as he began to think it all over he wanted to come and tell me that he loved me in spite of it, but he felt he couldn’t, under the circumstances, that he had to wait until—­now.  Although I didn’t give him any explanation, he wants me to know that he trusts me, he understands—­it’s because, he says, I am what I am.  He still wishes to marry me, to take care of me and the child.  We could live in California, at first—­he’s always been anxious to go there, he says.”

“Well, my dear?” Augusta Maturin forced herself to say at last.

“It’s so generous—­so like him!” Janet exclaimed.  “But of course I couldn’t accept such a sacrifice, even if—­” She paused.  “Oh, it’s made me so sad all summer to think that he’s unhappy because of me!”

“I know, Janet, but you should realize, as I told you in Silliston, that it isn’t by any deliberate act of your own, it’s just one of those things that occur in this world and that can’t be foreseen or avoided.”  Augusta Maturin spoke with an effort.  In spite of Janet’s apparent calm, she had never been more acutely aware of the girl’s inner suffering.

“I know,” said Janet.  “But it’s terrible to think that those things we unintentionally do, perhaps because of faults we have previously committed, should have the same effect as acts that are intentional.”

“The world is very stupid.  All suffering, I think, is brought about by stupidity.  If we only could learn to look at ourselves as we are!  It’s a stupid, unenlightened society that metes out most of our punishments and usually demands a senseless expiation.”  Augusta Maturin waited, and presently Janet spoke again.

“I’ve been thinking all summer, Mrs. Maturin.  There was so much I wanted to talk about with you, but I wanted to be sure of myself first.  And now, since the baby came, and I know I’m not going to get well, I seem to see things much more clearly.”

“Why do you say you’re not going to get well, Janet?  In this air, and with the child to live for!”

“I know it.  Dr. McLeod knows it, or he wouldn’t be staying here, and you’ve both been too kind to tell me.  You’ve been so kind, Mrs. Maturin —­I can’t talk about it.  But I’m sure I’m going to die, I’ve really known it ever since we left Silliston.  Something’s gone out of me, the thing that drove me, that made me want to live—­I can’t express what I mean any other way.  Perhaps it’s this child, the new life—­perhaps I’ve just been broken, I don’t know.  You did your best to mend me, and that’s one thing that makes me sad.  And the thought of Mr. Insall’s another.  In some ways it would