Patience came over to him quietly, and sat down on the side of the bed. She was half dressed, and her still beautiful arms went around him.
"You'll tire yourself all out thinking, Reuben. You won't be able to decorate anybody if you ain't careful."
"What I was goin' to say was this," persisted Reuben. "I've always had you, Peter. And you've had me. I don't count so much, but I'm powerful fond of you, Peter. You're all I've got. Seems as if I couldn't set enough by you, somehow or nuther."
The old man hid his face upon her soft neck.
"There, there, dear!" said Patience.
"It must be kinder hard, Peter, not to like your wife. Or maybe she mightn't like him. Sho! I don't think I could stand that.... Peter?"
"Don't you think you'd better be getting dressed, Reuben? The procession's going to start pretty early. Folks are moving up and down the street. Everybody's got flowers—See?"
Reuben looked out of the window and over the pansy-bed with brilliant, dry eyes. His wife could see that he was keeping back the thing that he thought most about. She had avoided and evaded the subject as long as she could. She felt now that it must be met, and yet she parleyed with it. She hurried his breakfast and brought the tray to him. He ate because she asked him to, but his hands shook. It seemed as if he clung wilfully to the old topic, escaping the new as long as he could, to ramble on.
"You've been a dreadfully amiable wife, Peter. I don't believe I could have got along with any other kind of woman."
"I didn't used to be amiable, Reuben. I wasn't born so. I used to take things hard. Don't you remember?"