“He is right,” she reflected. “I sympathize with him in his high purposes and I share the general admiration of his character and genius. But I do not share his real enthusiasms as Dorothy does. I have none of that love for scientific truth for its own sake, which is an essential part of his being. I have none of his self-sacrificing earnestness, none of that divine discontent which is the mainspring of all his acts and all his thinking. It is greatly better as Fate has ordered it. I am no fit life partner for him. Had he married me I should have made him happy in a way, perhaps, but it would have been at cost of his deterioration. It is better as it is--immeasurably better,--and I must school myself to think of it in that way. If I am worthy even of the friendship that he so generously gives me, I shall learn to rejoice that he gives the love to Dorothy instead, and not to me. I must learn to think of his good and the fit working out of his life as the worthiest thing I can strive for. And I _am_ learning this lesson. It is a little hard at first, but I shall master it.” A few days later Dorothy, in one of her unconsciously self-revealing letters, wrote: “I am sending you the Darwin book, with all my crude little notes in the margins. I have sealed it up quite securely and paid full letter postage on it, because it would be unjust to the government to send a book with writing in it, at book postage rates. Besides, I don’t want anybody but you to read the notes. Edmonia asked me to let her see the book before sending it, but I told her I couldn’t because I should die of shame if anybody should read my presumptuous comments on so great a book. For it is great, really and truly great. It is the greatest explanation of nature that anybody ever yet offered. At least that is the way it impresses me. Edmonia asked me why I was so chary of letting her see notes that I was entirely willing for you to see, and at first I couldn’t explain it even to myself, for, of course, I love Edmonia better than anybody else in the world, and I have no secrets from her. I told her I would have to think the matter over before I could explain it, and she said: ‘Think it out, child, and when you find out the explanation you may tell me about it or not, just as you please.’ She kindly laughed it off, but it troubled me a good deal. I couldn’t understand why it was that I couldn’t bear to let her see the notes, while I rather _wanted_ you to read them. I found it all out at last, and explained it to her, and she seemed satisfied. It’s because you know so much. You are my Master, and you always know how to allow for your pupil’s wrong thinking even while you set me right. Besides, somehow I am never ashamed of my ignorance when only you know of it. Edmonia said that was quite natural, and that I was entirely right not to show the scribbled book to her. So I don’t think I hurt her feelings, do you?