have accomplished the most effective work, never had children. It isn't the first question we ask about a great man or a good woman. I might have reason to complain if I didn't have my health or a good sound mind, or if after these few precious years together, I lost you. But as it is—well, please don't ever say again, young lady, that our present conditions are hard for me. Hard—Nonsense!"
Dear Will! I'd heard this same little speech of his dozens of times before. When he tries so hard to cheer me it seems too bad not to respond; so I smiled now.
"Will Maynard," I said, "you don't deceive me for one minute by all this talk! Don't think you do! I know—I understand. But I'll say this—and I've said it a hundred times before—you certainly are the kindest man I ever knew."
"Bosh!" he laughed.
"Yes, you are—yes, you are. And I guess if I've got you I'd better not complain." I put away my handkerchief. "It's all over now," I announced, "and I'm ready to beat you at those five games of crib."
He dealt the cards and for five minutes we played in earnest; then suddenly Will reached across and took my hand.
"Who says you and I aren't perfectly happy?" he asked.
