of the basket," she added, "if they'd be any use. I don't know much
about babies. My brother was bigger than me when we was at home, and, of
course, since then I've not had much to do with children."

Anne watched the two so helpless and confident. Mary rocked her knees
steadily, and the child's head lay contentedly.

"I believe you've put him to sleep," said Anne. "Shall I put him in the
cradle?"

"No, let me have him," said Mary, "I've never nursed a baby before."

CHAPTER XXI

Anne was left alone in the cottage with the baby, who slept in the
clothes-basket she had turned into a cradle. The dog slept, too, having
made friends with fortune. A late evening glow lit one side of the wall.
When it faded, the dusk would absorb all the room and its inhabitants.
Anne, sitting very still lest she should wake the baby, remembered one
by one the agonies that had been lived through, whose sole result seemed
to be this peaceful evening and the confidently breathing child. She
remembered the shock of the disgrace to her, she, who had been a friend
of the grandmother's, and how she had carried the burden about. She
remembered the new house, and Jane, pretty, spoiled, and without
misgiving, caring nothing for the hard judgments of which she herself
imbibed the bitterness. Then Jane, with the child already striving to be
free, leaving the new house at night, knowing without being told what
door was open to her of all the doors in the country, and what place she
would henceforth take. She saw the girl again, seated by the fire in the
Infirmary ward, with that strange division between herself and all
living, removed, as it were, to a distance which could not be bridged.
Then Jane was no more to be found. There was the boy-child instead, who
knew nothing except his desire to be kept alive; who met all
reservations and pity by a determination to be fed. Throughout the whole
evening, Anne had been struck by the fact that the other women scarcely
thought of Jane any more than the baby did. It remained to them a very
simple matter. There was a baby to feed and bring up. Being a boy, other
things would soon be forgotten. It was too late, she knew, to do
anything for Jane. The only thing that seemed possible to her in her
simple reasoning, was to prevent such catastrophes for the future. It
was not that pity was misplaced when shipwreck came, nor that charity
ever failed. She understood, without being conscious of it, the ironic