however beautiful and delightful, making the house glad with life and laughter, he was not sure that he wanted them.  Yet he had always thought that he possessed a strong paternal instinct, an interest in young life, in opening problems.  Had that all, he wondered, been a mere interest, a thing to exercise his energy and amiability upon, and had his enjoyment of it all depended upon his real detachment, upon the fact that his responsibility was only a temporary one?  It was all very bewildering to him.  Moreover, his quiet and fertile imagination flashed suddenly through pictures of what his beloved Maud might have to endure, such a frail child as she was—­illness, wretchedness, suffering.  Would he be equal to all that?  Could he play the role of tranquil patience, of comforting sympathy?  He determined not to anticipate that, but it blew like a cold wind on his spirit; he could not bear that the sunshine of life should be clouded.

He had a talk with his aunt on the subject; she had divined, in some marvellous way, the fact that the news had disturbed him; and she said, “Of course, dear Howard, I quite understand that this is not the same thing to you as it is to Maud and me.  It is one of the things which divide, and must always divide, men from women.  But there is something beyond what you see:  I know that it must seem to you as if something almost disconcerting had passed over life—­as if such a hope must absorb the heart of a mother; but there is a thing you cannot know, and that is the infinite dearness in which this involves you.  You would think perhaps that it could not be increased in Maud’s case, but it is increased a hundredfold—­it is a splendour, a worship, as of divine creative power.  Don’t be afraid!  Don’t look forward!  You will see day by day that this has brought Maud’s love for you to a point of which you could hardly dream.  Words can’t touch these things:  you must just believe me that it is so.  You will think that a childless wife like myself cannot know this.  There is a strange joy even in childlessness, but it is the joy that comes from the sharing of a sorrow; but the joy which comes from sharing a joy is higher yet.”

“Yes,” said Howard, “I know it, and I believe it.  I will tell you very frankly that you have looked into my very heart; but you have not seen quite into the depths:  I see my own weakness and selfishness clearly.  With every part of my mind and reason I see the wonder and strength of this; and I shall feel it presently.  What has shocked me is just my lack of the truer instinct; but then,” he added, smiling, “that’s just the shadow of comfort and ease and the intellectual life:  one goes so far on one’s way without stumbling across these big emotions; and when one does actually meet them, one is frightened at their size and strength.  You must advise and help me.  You know, I am sure, that my love for Maud is the strongest, largest, purest thing, beyond all comparison and belief, that has ever happened to me.  I am never for a single instant unaware of it.  I sometimes think there is nothing else left of me; and then this happens, and I see that I have not gone deep enough yet.”