Is it not perceived that thus it was not well assured, this great joy that she had, this cup of hers that brimmed? She started from that danger point at which the drug is drunk for stimulant. On the very first day of her new life she was saying, “How glad I am! How glad I am!” and going on radiant from her gladness. But she, in her resort to this her stimulant, suffered this grave disparity with the drinker’s case: he must increase his doses--and he can. She, living upon her stimulant, equally was compelled--but could not. The renunciation that brimmed her happiness on the first day was available to her in no bigger dose on the succeeding days, the hundredth day and the three hundredth and the five hundredth. It never could increase. It had no capacity of increase. Is it not perceivable that it had, on the contrary, a staling quality? It would have been all right if it had been all right. It would have been all right if it had not been all wrong. If these absurd premises can be understood, her case can be understood. She used them herself in after years. “It would have been all right,” she used to say to herself, twisting her hands together, “if it had been all right.” “It would have been all right,” she used to say to herself, “if it had not been all wrong.” What she meant, and what here is meant, requires it to be recalled that it was in that spirit of that glimpse of herself back a child again in the blue frock and in the pinafore with a hole in it that she came back to the children, came back home to them. Shocked by the thing that had come to pass, penitential by influence of the old childhood influences that had stirred within her, most strangely and most strongly transported back into that childhood vision of herself, it was in the guise of that child and with that child’s guise as her ideal for them that passionately she desired to take up her children’s lives. Her Huggo, her man child, her first one! Her Doda, her self’s own self, her woman-bud, her daughter! Her Benji, her littlest one, her darling! She longed, as it were, to throw open the door, and in that blue frock and in the spirit of that blue frock most ardently to run in to them and hug them, blue frocked, to her breast, and be one with them and tell them the things and the things and the things that were the blue frock’s mysteries and joys, and hear from them the things and the things and the things that were the blue frock’s all-enchanted world again.