hungered for the one woman.  And you are the one woman, the one physical object in the world, I worship.  There is no need that I tell you anything.  And you have learned, too, how I care for you in all greater, and, it may be, purer ways.  We are happy together.  But, love of me, we are a man and wife, an American man and wife, of the social grade—­for there are social grades, despite all our democracy—­where, it seems to me, a family has come to be esteemed almost a disgrace, as something vulgar and annoying.  And it seems to me this is something unnatural, and all wrong.  Whatever nature indicates is best.  To do what nature indicates is to secure the greatest happiness.  Trials may come, new sorrows and incumbrances be risked, but nature brings her recompense.  I want you the mother of our child, of our children, as it may be.  I know what your thought has been, I understand it now, but how can children separate us?  When a man and woman look together upon a child, another human being, a part of each of them, a being who would never have existed had they not found each other, a being with the traits of each combined, it seems to me as if their souls should blend somehow as never before.  They are one then, to a certainty.  They have become a unit in the great scheme of existence.  And so, darling, I have thought and thought much.  I have dreamed of you as the little mother, the one who would not be of the silly modern type, the one who, with me, would not be ashamed any more than were our sturdy ancestors of a sturdy family, should we be blessed so.  The one who would be glad with me in the womanhood and manhood of it.  And, as I said, it could never part us.  It would but make me more totally your own, more watchful, if that were possible, more tender, if that could be, more worshipful of you in the greater life of us two together, us two more completely.  And that is all.  It shall be as you say, and I will not complain, for I know your impulse in what you said and all its lovingness.”

She had listened to each word intently, and her face had flushed and paled alternately.  When he had done she snuggled more closely to him, and still said nothing.  When she did speak, this is what she said, and she said it earnestly: 

“I was wrong, my husband; I was a selfish, infatuated woman, who loved with one foolish idea which marred its fullness.  You have taught me something, dear.  You could not give me the thought I had again, even were you to try yourself, for I see it now.  And——­”

She put her arms about his neck and buried her fair face upon the pillow which afforded her such convenient shelter.  As for the man, there was something like a lump in his throat, but he spoke with an effort at playfulness, though his voice wavered a little: 

“It is right, my love.  And we will visit this nature of ours together.  It is the season now, and next week we go camping.  I want to show old friends of mine, the spirits of the forest, how fair a wife I’ve won.”