taboo.

Certain processes of the all-mother, the great artificing wisdom of the

power that works and weaves in silence and in darkness, when viewed in

the light of the established opinion of some of the little individuals

created by it, are considered very vile. We turn our faces away from the

creation of life as if that were the last thing that man should dare to

interest himself in, openly.

It is curious that a feeling of this sort should spring up in a world whose very essence is generative, the vast process dual, and where wind, water, soil, and light alike minister to the fruition of that which is all that we are.

Although the whole earth, not we alone, is moved by passions hymeneal,

and everything terrestrial has come into being by the one common road,

yet there is that ridiculous tendency to close the eyes and turn away the head as if there were something unclean in nature itself. "Conceived in iniquity and born in sin," is the unnatural interpretation put upon the process by the extreme religionist, and the world, by its silence, gives

assent to a judgment so marvellously warped.

Surely there is something radically wrong in this attitude. The teachings of philosophy and the deductions of biology should find more practical

applications in the daily reasoning of man. No process is vile, no

condition is unnatural. The accidental variation from a given social

practice does not necessarily entail sin. No poor little earthling, caught in the enormous grip of chance, and so swerved from the established

customs of men, could possibly be guilty of that depth of vileness which

the attitude of the world would seem to predicate so inevitably.

Jennie was now to witness the unjust interpretation of that wonder of

nature, which, but for Brander's death, might have been consecrated and

hallowed as one of the ideal functions of life. Although herself unable to distinguish the separateness of this from every other normal process of

life, yet was she made to feel, by the actions of all about her, that

degradation was her portion and sin the foundation as well as the

condition of her state. Almost, not quite, it was sought to extinguish the affection, the consideration, the care which, afterward, the world would

demand of her, for her child. Almost, not quite, was the budding and

essential love looked upon as evil. Although her punishment was neither

the gibbet nor the jail of a few hundred years before, yet the ignorance

and immobility of the human beings about her made it impossible for

them to see anything in her present condition, but a vile and premeditated infraction of the social code, the punishment of which was ostracism. All she could do now was to shun the scornful gaze of men, and to bear in

silence the great change that was coming upon her. Strangely enough, she

felt no useless remorse, no vain regrets. Her heart was pure, and she was conscious that it was filled with peace. Sorrow there was, it is true, but only a mellow phase of it, a vague uncertainty and wonder, which would

sometimes cause her eyes to fill with tears.

You have heard the wood-dove calling in the lone stillness of the

summertime; you have found the unheeded brooklet singing and babbling

where no ear comes to hear. Under dead leaves and snow- banks the

delicate arbutus unfolds its simple blossom, answering some heavenly

call for colour. So, too, this other flower of womanhood.

Jennie was left alone, but, like the wood-dove, she was a voice of

sweetness in the summertime. Going about her household duties, she was

content to wait, without a murmur, the fulfilment of that process for

which, after all, she was but the sacrificial implement. When her duties

were lightest she was content to sit in quiet meditation, the marvel of life holding her as in a trance. When she was hardest pressed to aid her

mother, she would sometimes find herself quietly singing, the pleasure of work lifting her out of herself. Always she was content to face the future with a serene and unfaltering courage. It is not so with all women. Nature is unkind in permitting the minor type to bear a child at all. The larger natures in their maturity welcome motherhood, see in it the immense

possibilities of racial fulfilment, and find joy and satisfaction in being the hand-maiden of so immense a purpose.

Jennie, a child in years, was potentially a woman physically and mentally, but not yet come into rounded conclusions as to life and her place in it.

The great situation which had forced her into this anomalous position was from one point of view a tribute to her individual capacity. It proved her courage, the largeness of her sympathy, her willingness to sacrifice for

what she considered a worthy cause. That it resulted in an unexpected

consequence which placed upon her a larger and more complicated

burden, was due to the fact that her sense of self-protection had not been commensurate with her emotions. There were times when the prospective

coming of the child gave her a sense of fear and confusion, because she

did not know, but that the child might eventually reproach her; but there was always that saving sense of eternal justice in life which would not

permit her to be utterly crushed. To her way of thinking, people were not intentionally cruel. Vague thoughts of sympathy and divine goodness

permeated her soul. Life at worst or best was beautiful—had always been

so.

These thoughts did not come to her all at once, but through the months

during which she watched and waited. It was a wonderful thing to be a

mother, even under these untoward conditions. She felt that she would

love this child, would be a good mother to it if life permitted. That was the problem—what would life permit?

There were many things to be done—clothes to be made; certain

provisions of hygiene and diet to be observed. One of her fears was that

Gerhardt might unexpectedly return, but he did not. The old family doctor who had nursed the various members of the Gerhardt family through their

multitudinous ailments—Doctor Ellwanger—was taken into consultation,

and he gave sound and practical advice. Despite his Lutheran upbringing,

the practice of medicine in a large and kindly way had led him to the

conclusion that there are more things in heaven and earth than are

dreamed of in our philosophies and in our small neighbourhood

relationships. "So it is," he observed to Mrs. Gerhardt when she confided to him nervously what the trouble was. "Well, you mustn't worry. These things happen in more places than you think. If you knew as much about

life as I do, and about your neighbours, you would not cry. Your girl will be all right. She is very healthy. She can go away somewhere afterward,

and people will never know. Why should you worry about what your

neighbours think. It is not so uncommon as you imagine."

Mrs. Gerhardt marvelled. He was such a wise man. It gave her a little

courage. As for Jennie, she listened to his advice with interest and without fear. She wanted things not so much for herself as for her child, and she was anxious to do whatever she was told. The doctor was curious to know

who the father was; when informed he lifted his eyes. "Indeed," he commented. "That ought to be a bright baby."

There came the final hour when the child was ushered into the world. It

was Doctor Ellwanger who presided, assisted by the mother, who, having

brought forth six herself, knew exactly what to do. There was no

difficulty, and at the first cry of the new-born infant there awakened in Jennie a tremendous yearning toward it. This was HER child! It was weak