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He went over the things she had
said, his whole being mellowed, divinely exultant, at thought of her
going to sleep just because she was tired from her day of happiness. Long
ago his mother had taught him to pray, and he prayed now that he might
keep her always as she was to-day, that he might guard her ever as she
had that sense now of being guarded, that her only weariness might come
as this had come, because she was so happy. How beautiful she was as she
slept! The Lovely Lady--that boy had said it right, after all. And she
was his!--his treasure--his joy--his sweetest thing in life! He had heard
a discussion over at the university a few days before about the equality
of man and woman. How foolish that seemed in this divine moment! God in
His great far-sightedness had given to the world a masculine and a
feminine soul. How insane to talk of their being alike, when the highest
happiness in life came through their being so entirely different! And she
was his! Other men could send her flowers--write poems about her
loveliness--but she was his, all his.


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