So Jennie was left with that consolation—that it was not _a big thing_. How big it was she could only guess at, but, whatever the magnitude, she had no doubt at all but that it was "up to her." She got some inspiration from the little word "up." There was a lift in it that made her courageous. Nevertheless, when she returned to the living room, finding her mother seated, erect and stately, in an armchair, with Pansy gazing at her with eyes of quenchless, infinite devotion, Jennie knew a qualm of fear. "Oh, momma, wouldn’t it be awful if Teddy had to go to jail?" "It would be awful or not, just as you took it. If you thought he went to jail as a thief, it _would_ be awful, but if you saw him only as the martyr of a system, you’d be proud to know he was there." "Oh, but, momma, what’s the good of saying things like that?" "What’s the good of letting them throw you down, a quivering bundle of flesh, before a Juggernaut, and just being meekly thankful? That’s what your father and I have always done, and, now that the wheels have passed over him, I see the folly of keeping silent. I may not do any good by speaking, but at least I speak. When they muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn, it isn’t much wonder if the famished beast goes mad. Did you ever see a mad ox, Jennie? Well, it’s a terrible sight—the most patient and laborious drudge among animals, goaded to a desperation in which he’s conscious of nothing but his wrongs and his strength. They generally kill him. It’s all they can do with him—but, of course, they can do that." "So that it doesn’t do the ox much good to go mad, does it?" "Oh yes; because he gets out of it. That’s the only relief for us, Jennie darling—to get out of it. I begin to understand how mothers can so often kill themselves and their children. They don’t want to leave anyone they love to endure the sufferings this world inflicts." From these ravings Jennie was summoned by the tinkle of the telephone bell. "Teddy!" cried the mother, starting to her feet. "No; it’s Mr. Wray. I knew he’d ring me if I didn’t turn up." The instrument was in the entry, and Jennie felt curiously calm and competent as she went toward it. All decisions being taken out of her hands, she no longer had to doubt and calculate. The renunciations, too, were made for her. She was not required to look back, only to go on. In answer to the question, "Is this Mrs. Follett’s house?" she replied, as if the occasion were an ordinary one: "Yes, Mr. Wray. I’m sorry I can’t come to the studio." "Oh! so it’s you! You can’t come—what? Then you needn’t come any more." "Yes; that’s what I thought. I see now that—that I can’t." "Well, of all—" He broke off in his expostulation to say: "Jennie, for God’s sake, what’s the matter with you? What are you afraid of?" "I’m not afraid of anything, Mr. Wray; but there’s a good deal the matter which I can’t explain on the telephone." "Do you want me to come over there?" "No; you couldn’t do any good."