“I can't,” answered Janet. “I couldn't.”
“But why not? Have you any other plans?”
“No, I haven't any plans, but—I haven't the right to stay here.” Presently she raised her face to her friend. “Oh Mrs. Maturin, I'm so sorry! I didn't want to bring any sadness here—it's all so bright and beautiful! And now I've made you sad!”
It was a moment before Augusta Maturin could answer her.
“What are friends for, Janet,” she asked, “if not to share sorrow with? And do you suppose there's any place, however bright, where sorrow has not come? Do you think I've not known it, too? And Janet, I haven't sat here all these days with you without guessing that something worries you. I've been waiting, all this time, for you to tell me, in order that I might help you.”
“I wanted to,” said Janet, “every day I wanted to, but I couldn't. I couldn't bear to trouble you with it, I didn't mean ever to tell you. And then—it's so terrible, I don't know what you'll think.”
“I think I know you, Janet,” answered Mrs. Maturin. “Nothing human, nothing natural is terrible, in the sense you mean. At least I'm one of those who believe so.”
Presently Janet said, “I'm going to have a child.”
Mrs. Maturin sat very still. Something closed in her throat, preventing her immediate reply.
“I, too, had a child, my dear,” she answered. “I lost her.” She felt the girl's clasp tighten on her fingers.