“And am I emotionally great?” she cuddled and cooed, after she had held him tight for a few moments. “Doesn’t it make any difference whether I know anything much about music or books or art? I do know something, don’t I, honey? I’m not wholly ignorant, am I?”
“No, no, sweetie; how you talk!”
“And will you always love me whether I know anything or not, honey-bun?” she went on. “And won’t it make any difference whether I can just cook and sew and do the marketing and keep house for you? And will you like me because I’m just pretty and not smart? I am a little pretty, ain’t I, dear?”
“You’re lovely,” whispered Duer soothingly. “You’re beautiful. Listen to me, sweet. I want to tell you something. Stop crying now, and dry your eyes, and I’ll tell you something nice. Do you remember how we stood, one night, at the end of your father’s field there near the barn-gate and saw him coming down the path, singing to himself, driving that team of big gray horses, his big straw hat on the back of his head and his sleeves rolled up above his elbows?”
“Yes,” said Marjorie.
“Do you remember how the air smelled of roses and honeysuckle and cut hay—and oh, all those lovely scents of evening that we have out there in the country?”
“Yes,” replied Marjorie interestedly.
“And do you remember how lovely I said the cow-bells sounded tinkling in the pasture where the little river ran?”
“Yes.”
“And the fireflies beginning to flash in the trees?”