“I’m so afraid,” she answered gravely.  “That I shall come to love you too much:  the home, the children and you.  I shall have none left over.”

“There is an old Hindoo proverb,” he said:  “That when a man and woman love they dig a fountain down to God.”

“This poor, little choked-up thing,” he said, “against which we are sitting; it’s for want of men and women drawing water, of children dabbling their hands in it and making themselves all wet, that it has run dry.”

She took his hands in hers to keep them warm.  The nursing habit seemed to have taken root in her.

“I see your argument,” she said.  “The more I love you, the deeper will be the fountain.  So that the more Love I want to come to me, the more I must love you.”

“Don’t you see it for yourself?” he demanded.

She broke into a little laugh.

“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted.  “Perhaps that is why He made us male and female:  to teach us to love.”

A robin broke into a song of triumph.  He had seen the sad-faced ghosts steal silently away.