respects. He did think he was through with sentiment; he could not have
talked deliberately to Alida or to any other about his old life and love, and
he truly felt that she had no part in that life. It had become a sad and
sacred memory, yet he wished to feel that he had the right to dwell upon it as
he chose. In his downright sincerity he wished her to know that he could not
help dwelling on it; that for him some things were over, and that he was not
to blame. He was profoundly grateful to her that she had so clearly accepted
the facts of his past, and of their own present relations. He HAD feared, it
is true, but she had not realized his fears, and he felt that it was her due
that he should acknowledge her straightforward carrying out of the compact
made under circumstances which might well excuse her from realizing everything
fully.

Moreover, direct and matter of fact as he was, he had felt vaguely the
inevitable difficulties of their relationship. The very word "wife" might
suggest to her mind an affection which he believed it was not in his power to
bestow. They had agreed to give an arbitrary and unusual meaning to their
marriage, and, while thinking it could have no other meaning for him, his mind
was haunted, and he feared that hers might be, by the natural significance of
the rite. So far from meaning to hint that she had been too wifelike, he had
meant to acknowledge her simple and natural fulfillment of his wishes in a
position far more difficult to fill than even he imagined. That she succeeded
so well was due to the fact that she entertained for him all the kind feelings
possible except the one supreme regard which, under ordinary circumstances,
would have accounted for the marriage. The reason that all promised to go so
well in their relationship of mere mutual help was the truth that this basis
of union had satisfied their mutual need. As the farmer had hoped, they had
become excellent friends, supplementing each other's work in a way that
promised prosperity.