“How, greater?” asked Dan, with sad incredulity. “I've lost all that made life worth living; and it's all my own fault, too.”
“Yes,” said his father; “I think she was a good girl.”
“Good!” cried Dan; the word seemed to choke him.
“Still, I doubt if it's all your fault.” Dan looked round at him. He added, “And I think it's perhaps for the best as it is.”
Dan halted, and then said, “Oh, I suppose so,” with dreary resignation, as they walked on.
“Let us go round by the paddock,” said his father, “and see if Pat's put the horses up yet. You can hardly remember your mother, before she became an invalid, I suppose,” he added, as Dan mechanically turned aside with him from the path that led to the house into that leading to the barn.
“No; I was such a little fellow,” said Dan.
“Women give up a great deal when they marry,” said the elder. “It's not strange that they exaggerate the sacrifice, and expect more in return than it's in the nature of men to give them. I should have been sorry to have you marry a woman of an exacting disposition.”
“I'm afraid she was exacting,” said Dan. “But she never asked more than was right.”
“And it's difficult to do all that's right,” suggested the elder.