Why you
actually must have some idea of what it is like yourself!"
"I have, Karl. I have imagined and thought about it and tried to--well,
just trained myself, until I believe I do know something of what it is
like."
"You love me!" he murmured, carried with that from despair to exultation.
"But if you could only know how _much._"
"I do know. I do know, dear. I wish that all the world--I'd hate to have
them know, for it's just ours--but for the sake of faltering faith they
ought to know what you've been to me this summer."
"Then, Karl,"--this after one of their precious silences--"I want to ask
you something. It is hard to say it just right, but I'll try. You know
that I love you--that we have one of those supreme loves which come at
rare times--perhaps for the sake of what you call faltering faith. But,
Karl--this will sound hard--but after all, doesn't it fail? Fail of being
supreme? Doesn't it fail if it is not--satisfying? I don't mean that it
should make up to one for such a thing as being blind, but if in spite of
love like ours life seems unbearable to you without your work--why then,
dear, doesn't it fail?"
He was long in answering, and then he only said, slowly: "I see.
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