"You need never fear to speak of your wife to me. I respect and honor your
feelings--the way you remember her. There's no reason why it should be
otherwise. I did not agree to one thing and expect another," and she looked
him straight in the eyes.

He dropped them, as he stood leaning against the bin in the shadowy old barn,
and said, "I didn't think you or anyone would be so sensible. Of course, one
can't forget quickly--"

"You oughtn't to forget," was the firm reply. "Why should you? I should be
sorry to think you could forget."

"I fear I'm not like to make you sorry," he replied, sighing. "To tell you the
truth--" he added, looking at her almost commiseratingly, and then he
hesitated.

"Well, the truth is usually best," she said quietly.

"Well, I'll tell you my thought. We married in haste, we were almost
strangers, and your mind was so distracted at the time that I couldn't blame
you if you forgot what--what I said. I feared--well, you are carrying out our
agreement so sensibly that I want to thank you. It's a relief to find that
you're not opposed, even in your heart, that I should remember one that I knew
as a little child and married when I was young."

"I remember all you said and what I said," she replied, with the same direct,
honest gaze. "Don't let such thoughts trouble you any more. You've been
kinder and more considerate than I ever expected. You have only to tell me
how she did--"