"I have inferred as much."

"I know it," said the man. "My wife has been intimate with her for
years. Indeed, they have always been like sisters. I remember very
well her coming to our house, about the time the mill was sold,
and crying about it as if her heart would break. She saw nothing
but sorrow and trouble ahead. Tavern-keeping she had always
regarded as a low business, and the change from a respectable
miller to a lazy tavern-keeper, as she expressed it, was presented
to her mind as something disgraceful. I remember, very well,
trying to argue the point with her--assuming that it was quite as
respectable to keep tavern as to do anything else; but I might as
well have talked to the wind. She was always a pleasant, hopeful,
cheerful woman before that time, but, really, I don't think I've
seen a true smile on her face since."

"That was a great deal for a man to lose," said I.

"What?" he inquired, not clearly understanding me.

"The cheerfull face of his wife."

"The face was but an index of her heart," said he.

"So much the worse."

"True enough for that. Yes, it was a great deal to lose.

"What has he gained that will make up for this?"