Newman always spoke of his wife as "the most affectionate and tender-
hearted of mortals." There was always a very great affection between them.
His letters all show this. Their married life was a long intercourse of
happiness, _un_-"chequered by disputes." [Footnote: "Marriage is one long
conversation, chequered by disputes."--R. L. Stevenson.] Still, there was
not (as is shown, I think, in many ways) strong community of interests.
For in all Newman's laborious philological studies--his learned lectures,
articles, and researches, scriptural and literary, his speculations in the
realms of deep thought--she was to all intents and purposes practically
outside his mental door. She was never greatly inclined to join in the
society of his learned friends; but this was more from a sense of modesty,
because she was afraid of not being in sympathy with them; because she
thought that she was not clever enough.

She had the greatest admiration for her husband. It is easy, of course, to
understand that when Frank Newman came back from his missionary journey he
was just the sort of young man who would take a girl's fancy. It was a
thing not to be surprised at that she fell in love with him. She was
keenly interested in home missionary work among the poor villagers of her
own home. She knew that he had come through great dangers in his journey
to the Holy Land as a missionary. He had not then definitely cast aside
his old beliefs--that was to come later; _now_ he was on the brink of it,
and he was alone on this inward, personal brink. _She_ would not yet be
aware of it. Very probably he seemed a hero in her eyes, because of all
the dangers he had braved to preach the Gospel, and because he was one of
the most intellectual men of his day: had taken high honours at Oxford,
and had given them up for the sake of what he believed to be right.

In the beautiful little Devonshire town of Ottery St. Mary, very possibly