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
severity of Jesus, who would have no sudden pity and heart-searching on
account of His poor. He had come into the world for righteousness and
for judgment, and the judgment and righteousness both declared, not at
the time of disaster or human appeal, nor with sudden loud outcries,
but, "The poor always ye have with you, and _whensoever ye will_, ye may
do them good."

The baby stirred. Anne lit the candle, and set it on the stairs. She
stepped over the dog, and took a warm flannel from the oven door.