“But that won’t be for a long time yet; though Polly’s doing splendid.”
“Is she?”
“Well, I oughtn’t to boast. But they’ve wrote me she’s to be pupil-teacher next year.”
“ Polly? ”
“Polly,” bridled Mrs. Bailey and laughed with shining eyes. “The chahld’s not turned fifteen yet, dear little woman blesser.” Miriam winced; poor little Polly Bailey, to die so soon, without knowing it.
“Oh, that’s magnificent.” Perhaps it was magnificent. Perhaps a Bailey would not feel cheated and helpless. Polly would be a pupil-teacher, perkily remaining her same self, a miniature of Mrs. Bailey, already full of amused mysterious knowledge and equal to every occasion.
Mrs. Bailey smiled shyly, “She’s like her poor mother; she’s got a will of her own.” Miriam sat at ease within the tide … where did women find the insight into personality that gave them such extraordinary prophetic power? She herself had not an atom of it. Perhaps it was matronhood; and Mary hid all these things in her heart. No; aunts often had it, even more than matrons; Mrs. Bailey was so splendidly controlled that she was an aunt as well as a mother to the children. She contemplated the sharply ravaged little head, reared and smiling above the billows of what people called “misfortunes” by her conscious and self-confessed strength of will; yes, and unconscious fairness and generosity, reflected Miriam and an immovable sense of justice. All these years of scraping and contrivance had not corrupted Mrs. Bailey; she ought to be a judge, and not Mr. Gunner’s general servant. … Justice is a woman; blindfolded; seeing from the inside and not led away by appearances; men invent systems of ethics, but they cannot weigh personality; they have no individuality, only