ldn't, she
wouldn't ever do such a thing? Surely she wouldn't, she couldn't ever
forget her poor, forget misery and sickness as completely as that? No
doubt a trip to Italy would be extraordinarily delightful, but there
were many delightful things one would like to do, and what was strength
given to one for except to help one not to do them?

Steadfast as the points of the compass to Mrs. Arbuthnot were the
great four facts of life: God, Husband, Home, Duty. She had gone to
sleep on these facts years ago, after a period of much misery, her head
resting on them as on a pillow; and she had a great dread of being
awakened out of so simple and untroublesome a condition. Therefore it
was that she searched with earnestness for a heading under which to put
Mrs. Wilkins, and in this way illumine and steady her own mind; and
sitting there looking at her uneasily after her last remark, and
feeling herself becoming more and more unbalanced and infected, she
decided pro tem, as the vicar said at meetings, to put her under the
heading Nerves. It was just possible that she ought to go straight
into the category Hysteria, which was often only the antechamber to
Lunacy, but Mrs. Arbuthnot had learned not to hurry people into their
final categories, having on more than one occasion discovered with
dismay that she had made a mistake; and how difficult it had been to
get them out again, and how crushed she had been with the most terrible
remorse.

Yes. Nerves. Probably she had no regular work for others,
thought Mrs. Arbuthnot; no work that would take her outside herself.
Evidently she was rudderless--blown about by gusts, by impulses. Nerves
was almost certainly her category, or would be quite soon if no one
helped her. Poor little thing, thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, her own balance
returning hand in hand with her compassion, and unable, because of the
table, to see the length of Mrs. Wilkins's legs. All she saw was her
small, eager, shy face, and her thin shoulders, and the look of
childish longing in her eyes for something that she was sure was going
to make her happy. No; such things didn't make people happy, such
fleeting things. Mrs. Arbuthnot had learned in her long life with
Frederick--he was her husband, and she had married him at twenty and was
not thirty-three--where alone true joys are to be found. They are to be
found, she now knew, only in daily, in hourly, living for others; they
are to be found only--hadn't she