"If we do have a boy, will you let me teach him what I think is right?" Lenore went on, softly.
"Lenore! As if I would not!" he exclaimed. "I try to see your way, but just because I can't I'll never oppose you. Teach me if you can!"
She kissed him and knelt beside his bed, grieved to see shadow return to his face, yet thrilling that the way seemed open for her to inspire. But she must never again choose to talk of war, of materialism, of anything calculated to make him look into darkness of his soul, to ponder over the impairment of his mind. She remembered the great specialist speaking of lesions of the organic system, of a loss of brain cells. Her inspiration must be love, charm, care—a healing and building process. She would give herself in all the unutterableness and immeasurableness of her woman's heart. She would order her life so that it would be a fulfilment of his education, of a heritage from his fathers, a passion born in him, a noble work through which surely he could be saved—the cultivation of wheat.
"Do you love me?" she whispered.
"Do I!… Nothing could ever change my love for you."
"I am your wife, you know."
The shadow left his face.
"Are you? Really? Lenore Anderson…"
"Lenore Dorn. It is a beautiful name now."
"It does sound sweet. But you—my wife? Never will I believe!"