The first thing that struck me in the manner of Miss Reinhart was the
way in which she spoke to my father. Now, I am quite sure, no matter
what came afterward, that at that time my father was one of the most
loyal and honest of men. I am sure that he loved my mother with greatest
affection: that her illness made her all the more dear to him, and that
he looked upon it as a trial equally great for both of them; he loved
her the more for it, and he devoted himself to her to make up to her as
much as he could for the privations that she had to undergo. As for
pitying himself, such an idea never occurred to him; of that I am
certain. All his love, pity, his compassion and sympathy, were for her,
without any thought of himself; but she almost spoke to him as though he
were to be pitied, as though he were very much injured and put upon, as
though my mother's illness were a wrong done to him.

At first I noticed that he, too, seemed somewhat surprised; that he
would look half-wonderingly at her; then, at last, he fell into her
mood. She generally began at the breakfast table, where she came looking
as beautiful as a picture; the loveliest hue of the rose on her face,
the freshness of the morning in her dark eyes and on her lips; dressed
with great elegance, always with one lovely flower in her hair, and a
knot of fresh, fragrant blossoms at her breast; the fairest of women,
but how I disliked her. I can imagine that to any gentleman her society
must have been extremely agreeable.

My father's lonely breakfasts had often been a cause of great distress
to him. He was essentially so gay and cheery; he loved the sound of
voices and laughter; he liked to be amused; to discuss the plans for the
day; to comment upon the letters received. To breakfast alone, or sit
alone, was for him a torture; he sighed always when the breakfast bell