“You think she did right?” asked Robina.
“I cannot say,” I answered; “there are no rules for Life, only for the individual.”
“I have read it somewhere,” said Robina—“where was it?—‘Love suffers all things, and rejoices.’”
“Maybe in old Thomas Kempis. I am not sure,” I said.
“It seems to me,” said Robina, “that the explanation lies in that one sentence of hers: ‘I was not great enough to love all of you.’”
“It seems to me,” I said, “that the whole art of marriage is the art of getting on with the other fellow. It means patience, self-control, forbearance. It means the laying aside of our self-conceit and admitting to ourselves that, judged by eyes less partial than our own, there may be much in us that is objectionable, that calls for alteration. It means toleration for views and opinions diametrically opposed to our most cherished convictions. It means, of necessity, the abandonment of many habits and indulgences that however trivial have grown to be important to us. It means the shaping of our own desires to the needs of others; the acceptance often of surroundings and conditions personally distasteful to us. It means affection deep and strong enough to bear away the ugly things of life—its quarrels, wrongs, misunderstandings—swiftly and silently into the sea of forgetfulness. It means courage, good humour, commonsense.”
“That is what I am saying,” explained Robina. “It means loving him even when he’s naughty.”
Dick came across the fields. Robina rose and slipped into the house.
“You are looking mighty solemn, Dad,” said Dick.
“Thinking of Life, Dick,” I confessed. “Of the meaning and the explanation of it.”