a greater thing for baby."

Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End.
No better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the
great red poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with
the little red poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the
wheat. These little events would become part of her year after year.
Every summer she would fear lest the well should give out, every
winter lest the pipes should freeze; every westerly gale might blow the
wych-elm down and bring the end of all things, and so she could not read
or talk during a westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. She and her
sister were sitting on the remains of Evie's rockery, where the lawn
merged into the field.

"What a time they all are!" said Helen. "What can they be doing inside?"
Margaret, who was growing less talkative, made no answer. The noise of
the cutter came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by
them a man was preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes.

"I wish Henry was out to enjoy this," said Helen. "This lovely weather
and to be shut up in the house! It's very hard."

"It has to be," said Margaret. "The hay fever is his chief objection
against living here, but he thinks it worth while."

"Meg, is or isn't he ill? I can't make out."

"Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all his life, and
noticed nothing. Those are the people who collapse when they do notice a
thing."

"I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle."

"Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, too, to-day. Still,
he wanted them all to come. It has to be."

"Why does he want them?"

Margaret did not answer.

"Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry."

"You'd be odd if you didn't," said Margaret.

"I usen't to."

"Usen't!" She lowered her eyes a moment to the black abyss of the past.
They had crossed it, always excepting Leonard and Charles. They were
building up a new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard
was dead; Charles had two years more in prison. One usen't always to see
clearly before that time. It was different now.

"I like Henry because he does worry."

"And he likes you because you don't."

Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried her face in her hands.
After a time she said: "About love," a transition less abrupt than it
appeared.

Margaret never stopped working.

"I mean a woman's love for a m