Suddenly he broke off. “What a fool I’m making of myself,” he said. “I always was a dreamer.” He was thinking only of himself. Had he no pity for her. So was she, also, useless without her mate. Neither was she of those, here and there, who can stand alone. Her task was that of the eternal woman: to make a home: to cleanse the world of sin and sorrow, make it a kinder dwelling-place for the children that should come. This man was her true helpmeet. He would have been her weapon, her dear servant; and she could have rewarded him as none other ever could. The lamplight fell upon his ruddy face, his strong white hands resting on the flimsy table. He belonged to an older order than her own. That suggestion about him of something primitive, of something not yet altogether tamed. She felt again that slight thrill of fear that so strangely excited her. A mist seemed to be obscuring all things. He seemed to be coming towards her. Only by keeping her eyes fixed on his moveless hands, still resting on the table, could she convince herself that his arms were not closing about her, that she was not being drawn nearer and nearer to him, powerless to resist.!

“But we must succeed to be of use,” urged Mary. “Must God’s servants always remain powerless?” “No,” answered Joan. “But my mother was. Are you?”

“I think it is someone I know,” she said. “Won’t you help me?” She wondered later why she had not been surprised to see him. But at the time it seemed to be in the order of things that she should look up and find him there. “No, it wasn’t,” answered the child. “Most of them were against it. And then there was Mama,” she added in a lower tone.