'
She thanked God that he had not.
"'Sooner or later,' so ran the letter, 'you would have learned, Dear,
that I was neither saint nor angel; but just a woman--such a
tiresome, inconsistent creature; she would have exasperated you--full
of a thousand follies and irritabilities that would have marred for
you all that was good in her. I wanted you to have of me only what
was worthy, and this seemed the only way. Counting the hours to your
coming, hating the pain of your going, I could always give to you my
best. The ugly words, the whims and frets that poison speech--they
could wait; it was my lover's hour.
"'And you, Dear, were always so tender, so gay. You brought me joy
with both your hands. Would it have been the same, had you been my
husband? How could it? There were times, even as it was, when you
vexed me. Forgive me, Dear, I mean it was my fault--ways of thought
and action that did not fit in with my ways, that I was not large-
minded enough to pass over. As my lover, they were but as spots upon
the sun. It was easy to control the momentary irritation that they
caused me. Time was too precious for even a moment of estrangement.
As my husband, the jarring note would have been continuous, would
have widened into discord. You see, Dear, I was not great enough to
love ALL of you. I remember, as a child, how indignant I always felt
with God when my nurse told me He would not love me because I was
naughty, that He only loved good children.
Pages:
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238