ourse,
that she was by nature weaker and, because of the weakness, had a
sweet inferiority. It had never detracted from his love for her; it
had increased it. There might not have been any love in the beginning
except for that.

Henry was perhaps scarcely capable of loving a woman whom he might be
compelled to acknowledge as his superior. This elderly New-Englander
had in him none of the spirit of knight-errantry. He had been a good,
faithful husband to his wife, but he had never set her on a pedestal,
but a trifle below him, and he had loved her there and been patient
with her.

But patience must breed a certain sense of superiority. That is
inevitable. Henry's tender patience with Sylvia's moods and unreason
made him see over her character, as he could see over her physical
head. Lately this sense of mystery had increased, in a way, his
comprehension of his own stature. The more mysterious Sylvia became,
and the more Henry's patience was called into action, the taller he
appeared to himself to become.

While he had been getting the corn out in the garden, and preparing
it to be cooked, he had reflected upon Sylvia's unaccountable emotion
and her assertion that there was no reason for it, and he realized
his masculine height. He knew that it would have been impossible for
him to lose control of himself and then declare that there was no
cause; to sway like a reed driven by the wind.

Henry was rather taken by this idea. When he had returned to his
station on the porch he was thinking how women were reeds driven by
the winds of their emotions, and really, in a measure, irresponsible.
If he had again found Sylvia with her apron over her face, he was
quite prepared to be very tender, but he was relieved to see that the
paroxysm had passed. He did not smile as he sat down, neither did
Sylvia. It was rather unusual for them to smile at each other, but
they exchanged looks of peaceful accord, which really meant more than
smiles.

"Well," said Henry, "the kettle's on the stove."

"How much corn did you get?"

"Well, I allowed three ears apiece. They're pretty good size. I
thought that was about right."

Sylvia nodded.

"The corn's holding out pretty well," said Henry. "That other later
kind will be ready by the time the lima beans are ripe."

"That 'll go nice for succotash," said Sylvia, taking another stitch.

"That's what I was thinking," said Henry.

He sat staring out upon the front yard, and he was in r