“Yes, John, I know. But do you think—”
“I think a great many things, Barbe.”
“Yes; but that I shall make you happy, that I can fill your life for you?”
He took her unloosed hair, and put it back from off her forehead. Perhaps he was learning the familiar truth that no being can be more fiercely conscientious and self-critical than a good woman newly married. Fevers of doubt and of introspection rise in her. The surrender is so final, so utter, and the future seems so precious.
“Barbe, we have been married not quite a day. Yes—yes—I know. It is the sweet, brave heart in you that is blind to its own worth. Little wife, look in my eyes and see if you see any shadows there.”
She looked and smiled.
“No, John.”
“Then never look for them, dear heart. One’s imagination may create curses. Always speak out; never think in. If I ever hurt you—yet God forbid—tell me so; that can be mended.”
She felt for his hands and held them.
“I will try always not to think of myself, John.”