It was true she knew nothing of art, nothing of music--the great, new music--nothing of books in the eclectic sense, but she had real, sweet, deep, sad, stirring emotion, the most appealing thing he knew. It might not be as great as that exhibited by some of the masters of the stage, or the great composers--he was not quite sure, so critical is life--but nevertheless it was effective, dramatic, powerful. Where did she get it? No really common soul could have it. Here must be something of the loneliness of the prairies, the sad patience of the rocks and fields, the lonesomeness of the hush of the countryside at night, the aimless, monotonous, pathetic chirping of the crickets. Her father following down a furrow in the twilight behind straining, toil-worn horses; her brothers binding wheat in the July sun; the sadness of furrow scents and field fragrances in the twilight--there was something of all these things in her sobs. It appealed to him, as it might well have to any artist. In his way Duer understood this, felt it keenly. “Why, Margie,” he insisted, “you mustn’t talk like that! You’re better than you say you are. You say you don’t know anything about books or art or music. Why, that isn’t all. There are things, many things, which are deeper than those things. Emotion is a great thing in itself, dearest, if you only knew. You have that. Sarah Bernhardt had it; Clara Morris had it, but who else? In ‘La Dame aux Camelias,’ ‘Sapho,’ ‘Carmen,’ ‘Mademoiselle de Maupin,’ it is written about, but it is never commonplace. It’s great. I’d rather have your deep upwelling of emotion than all those cheap pictures, songs, and talk put together. For, sweet, don’t you know”--and he cuddled her more closely--“great art is based on great emotion. There is really no great art without it. I know that best of all, being a musician. You may not have the power to express yourself in music or books or pictures--you play charmingly enough for me--but you have the thing on which these things are based; you have the power to feel them. Don’t worry over yourself, dear. I see that, and I know what you are, whether any one else does or not. Don’t worry over me. I have to be nice to these people. I like them in their way, but I love you. I married you--isn’t that proof enough? What more do you want? Don’t you understand, little Margie? Don’t you see? Now aren’t you going to cheer up and be happy? You have me. Ain’t I enough, sweetie? Can’t you be happy with just me? What more do you want? Just tell me.” “Nothing more, honey-bun!” she went on sobbing and cuddling close; “nothing more, if I can have you. Just you! That’s all I want--you, you, you!” She hugged him tight. Duer sighed secretly. He really did not believe all he said, but what of it? What else could he do, say, he asked himself? He was married to her. In his way, he loved her--or at least sympathized with her intensely.