Lotta comforted her as best she could, clumsily dropping a word in here and there as Ann poured out her confused narrative. Ann kept on saying: "He ought to have gone if he wanted to go." "But he couldn't leave you like that----" "It was seeing him again done it. I couldn't bear it, seeing him and knowing he was wanting to go." "He was wanting you to feel that--that he was not going out of indifference to you." "He doesn't want me. He said that." "My dear child, you mustn't think about it like that. You must see that it is ended now." "I'll never care for anybody again--not like that." "Don't make things harder for yourself. How do you know?" "You're only young once." "Love is stronger when youth is gone." Ann believed that. She wanted to believe in Lotta, and she sat very quietly, almost like a child, while the quiet, gentle woman tried to explain to her that René had taken nothing away, that their love must die for all it had lacked, that there was no disgrace in a failure to bring a love to life, that it was happening everywhere, every day, and that a dead love was the most horrible of prisons. And, said Lotta, if a child was to be born, it were better not to bring it into such captivity, better not to have the joy and beauty of motherhood spoiled by jealousy and disappointment in the failure of love. Ann wept anew. People were so kind, she said: there was Old Martin, and now there was Lotta; and she had only dreaded her loneliness of being left alone to face "that." Lotta said there was no question of being left alone. If Ann liked, she could come to her hostel as maid, and when her time came she could go out to the country. "I think," said Lotta, "that all children ought to be born and bred in the country. Don't you?" "The mews," replied Ann, "is not much of a place for them." She did not quite like the idea of being "in service," but Lotta explained that it did not necessarily mean for always. Once the baby was born and provided for, Ann could go back to her factory and take up her life, if she wished, where it was before René came into it. "But I'll always want to hear about him," said Ann. "Of course. He'll always want to hear about you." "And see him." "He'll want to see you too." So it was arranged, and Ann promised to be at the hostel next morning. When Lotta had gone, she sat down and wrote: "DEAR RENNY,--I do want you to forgive me. I have been awful, but not without excuse. I do like Miss Lotta. She's been an angel to me and made me feel awfuller. I'm going to her. A letter for you to say you 'ad come into some money. I tore it up when I first began to feel bad toward you. I don't feel bad any more.--Your loving ANN."