"Where's Mama, Elsie?" Milly asked. The child pointed off to a corner of the garden near by, and Milly followed her small guide to the bench where Marion Reddon was seated. The other child hadn't yet come, but evidently was not far off. Milly felt strangely glad to see the little woman again, and before long confided in her her own trouble. "That's good!" Marion Reddon said quickly and with evident sincerity. "You think so!" Milly cried pettishly. "Well, I don't." "It simplifies everything so." "Simplifies?" "Of course. When you're having children, there are some things you can't do--just a few you can--and so you do what you can and don't worry about the rest." "It spoils your freedom." The pale-faced little woman laughed. "Freedom? That's book-talk. Most people do so much more when they aren't free than when they are. Sam says it's the same with his work. When he's free, he does nothing at all because there's so much time and so many things he'd like to try. But when he's tied down with a lot of work at the school, then he uses every spare moment and gets something done--'just to spite the devil.'" She smiled drolly. "You'll see when it comes." Milly looked unconvinced and said something about "the unfair burden on women," the sort of talk her more advanced women friends were beginning to indulge in. Mrs. Reddon had other views. "It's the natural thing," she persisted. "If I didn't want children for myself, I'd have 'em anyway for Sam." "Does he like babies?" "Not especially. Few men do at first. But it trains him. And it makes a hold in the world for him." "What do you mean?" "Children make a home--you have to have one. The man can't run away and forget it." She smiled with her droll expression of worldly wisdom. "Sam would be in mischief half the time, if it weren't for us. He'd be running here and there, sitting up all hours, wasting his energies smoking and drinking with everybody he met--and now he can't--very much." "But--but--how about you?" "Oh," the little woman continued calmly, "I don't flatter myself that I could hold my husband long alone, without the children." She looked Milly straight in the eyes and smiled. "Few women can, you know." "I don't see why not." "They get used to us--in every way--and want change, don't you see that? They know every idea we have, every habit, every look good and bad--clever men, especially." "So we know them!" "Of course! But women don't like change, variety--the best of us don't. We aren't venturesome. Men are, you see, and that's the difference.... I don't know that we mightn't become so if we had the chance, but we've been deprived of it for so long that we have lost the courage, the desire for change almost. What we know we cling to, isn't that so?" She rose to capture the wandering Elsie. "I must go back now to get Sam's _déjeuner_. Won't you come? He'd love to see you--he often speaks about you and your husband."