The man said nothing.  He could not understand at first; then came upon him, gradually, a comprehension of how different had been their dreams in some ways.  It was inexplicable.  He thought of the mother instinct which gives even to the little girl a doll.  He had supposed that his own fancies were but weak reflections of what was in the innermost heart of the woman he loved so.  He blurted out, almost roughly: 

“‘Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.’” Then added, bitterly, “It is the man who is saying it this time, you see.”

A second later, shame-faced and repentant, he had caught the slender figure in his arms and was holding it close to him.

“I’m a brute, dear,” he said, “and there is no excuse for me.  I understand, I think.  We dreamed differently.  That was all.  Had you loved me less, dear heart, you would have been more like other women.  But it doesn’t matter.  It shall be as you say, as you may wish or fancy.  We thought unlike, yet you were as much the pivot of my thought as I of yours.  It was of you, for you, and because of you, I had my visions.  That is all.  And we will not talk more of it.”

She nestled closer to him, and he stroked the brown mass of her hair and remained silent.  Some moments passed that way.  Then she roused herself and sat up squarely, and looked him bravely in the face.

“I have been thinking,” she said, “and I can think very well when I am so close to you, with my head where it is now.  I have been thinking, and it has occurred to me that I was not a wise, good woman, and I want you to forgive me.”

His answer involved no words at all, but it was meet for every purpose.  She pushed him away from her, and spoke gravely: 

“Will you do something for me, Grant?”

“Yes.”

“Will you do it now?”

“Yes—­if it be good for you.”

“I want you to do this.  I want you to imagine me some one else, some one you regard, but for whom you do not care particularly.  And then I want you to tell me what you think, what you would think best about the—­’the others’”—­blushing more fairly than any rose that ever grew on stem.  “Will you do that?”

His face was very earnest.  “I will try,” he said, “but it will be difficult to imagine you someone else.  How can I do that when I can look into your eyes, my little wife?  I’ll try, though.”

“Then talk to me, now.”

He was troubled.  He did not know how to express himself in the spirit asked of him, and he did not look at her in the beginning.

“Sweetheart, you are a part of me, and you are the greatest of what there is of my life.  It is about you that all my thoughts converge.  I do not suppose there will be any happier, any dearer time ever than this we are passing together, with none to molest us, or divert us from each other.  You know me well now.  I am what I am, and never was a man of stronger personal moods or one who so