I felt I had no right, and that considering my helpless position the only true motherly love was to pray that my baby might be still-born.
But that was too hard. It was too terrible. It was like a second bereavement. I could not and would not do it.
"Never, never, never!" I told myself.
EIGHTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
Thinking matters out in the light of Maggie Jones's story, I concluded that poverty was at the root of nearly everything. If I could stave off poverty no real harm could come to my child.
I determined to do so. But there was only one way open to me at present—and that was to retrench my expenses.
I did retrench them. Persuading myself that I had no real need of this and that, I reduced my weekly outlay.
This gave me immense pleasure, and even when I saw, after a while, that I was growing thin and pale, I felt no self-pity of any sort, remembering that I had nobody to look well for now, and only the sweet and glorious duty before me of providing for my child.
I convinced myself, too, that my altered appearance was natural to my condition, and that all I needed was fresh air and exercise, therefore I determined to walk every day in the Park.