the foundation of a world of wretchedness and ruin. I
can see Satan standing at the mother's elbow. He follows her around into
the nursery and the kitchen. He tosses up the babies and the omelets,
delivers dutiful harangues about the inappropriateness of the piano
and the library, and grins fiendishly in his sleeve at the wreck he is
making,--a wreck not necessarily of character, but of happiness; for I
suppose Satan has so bad a disposition, that, if he cannot do all the
harm he would wish, he will still do all he can. It is true that there
are thousands of noble men married to fond and foolish women, and they
are both happy. Well, the fond and foolish women are very fortunate.
They have fallen into hands that will entreat them tenderly, and they
will not perceive that anything is kept back. Nor are the noble men
wholly unfortunate, in that they have not taken to their hearths shrews.
But this is not marriage.

There are women less foolish. They see their husbands attracted in other
directions more often and more easily than in theirs. They have too much
sterling worth and profound faith to be vulgarly jealous. They fear
nothing like shame or crime; but they feel the fact that their own
preoccupation with homely household duties precludes real companionship;
the interchange of emotions, thoughts, sentiments, a living and palpable
and vivid contact of mind with mind, of heart with heart. They see
others whose leisure ministers to grace, accomplishments, piquancy, and
attractiveness, and the moth flies towards the light by his own nature.
Because he is a wise and virtuous and honorable moth, he does not dart
into the flame. He does not even scorch his wings. He never thinks of
such a thing. He merely circles around the pleasant light, sunning
himself in it without much thought one way or another, only feeling
that it is pleasant; but meanwhile Mrs. Moth sits at home in darkness,
mending the children's clothes, which is not exhilarating. Many a woman
who feels that she possesses her husband's affection misses something.
She does not secure his fervor, his admiration. His love is honest and
solid, but a little dormant, and therefore dull. It does not brace, and
tone, and stimulate. She wants not the love only, but the keenness and
edge and flavor of the love; and she suffers untold pangs. I know it,
for I have seen it. It is not a thing to be uttered. Most women do
not admit it even to themselves; but it is revealed by a l