There are different degrees of holiness; even the angels differ one from the other in glory; why, then, should the same crown be thought to fit all women?
The golden diadem may be more precious, but shall we deny royalty to the crown of wild olive or to the laurel wreath?
The mother is the pole-star of the race, but there are other stars which light up the dark places; why should their lonely radiance be scoffed at?
Women such as Mabella Lansing are the few chosen out of the many called.
There was in her that intuitive and exquisite motherliness which all the ethics on earth cannot produce. A simple and not brilliant country girl, she yet had a sense of responsibility in regard to her child which elucidated to her all the problems of heredity.
It is probable that she was a trifle too much impressed with her importance as a mother, that she had rather too much contempt for childless women, but that is an attitude which is universal enough to demand forgiveness—it seems to come with the mother’s milk—yet it is an unlovely thing, and whilst bowing the head in honest admiration of every mother, rich or poor, honest or shamed, one would wish to whisper sometimes to them that there are other vocations not lacking in potentialities for good.
“What a lovely house you have, Vashti!” said Mabella, irrepressible admiration in her voice, a hint of housewifely envy in her eyes.
“Yes, it is very comfortable,” said Vashti, with a perfectly unaffected air of having lived in such rooms all her days.
“Comfortable!” echoed Mabella; then remembering her one treasure which outweighed all these things, she added, a little priggishly: “it’s a good thing there are no babies here to pull things about.”