"We agree--we agree!" she danced about the room in delight. "Isn't it delightful? Oh, I was beginning to despair!" There was really something childlike in her voice and manner, and I followed her movements with admiration. Suddenly she stopped, and throwing herself on the sofa, hid her face in the cushion, and began to sob. It was the first time that an act of mine had caused a woman to sob, and it unmanned me. I sat by her side and soothed her with awkward, endearing words, and my efforts were rewarded; she became calmer. "It is so sweet, so sweet, when you are like this!" she murmured, and dried her eyes. "You are my dear old boy again, just as you were before we were married. Oh, John, why did you go over my boxes on the sly?" "It was wrong; I have confessed it." "But I like to hear you say it. You were wrong!" "Yes, I was wrong." "You mean it, dear--you are not deceiving me?" "No, Barbara, I am not deceiving you." She pouted. "It is nothing but 'Barbara, Barbara.' 'Yes, Barbara,' 'No, Barbara.' Not so very long ago you would say, 'No, my love,' 'Yes, my darling.' Now, my dear, dear boy, say out of your very heart, 'I am not deceiving you, my darling.'" I repeated the words; to have refused, to have hesitated, would have destroyed the good work, the better understanding, of which I seemed to see the promise. "I am not deceiving you, my darling." "Oh, how good it is to hear you speak like that! It is like waking out of a horrid dream to a delightful reality. And you truly, truly love me?" Again I answered, under pressure. "I truly love you." "Then I don't care for anything else in the wide, wide world, and I am the happiest woman in it. You had almost forgotten, had you not, John, that I was alone in this city, without a friend but you? I have only you--only you. I hardly cared to live, for what is life without love? But I was frightening myself unnecessarily--or were you doing it just to try me. You will be kind to me, will you not, dear?' "Indeed, I have no other desire." "See how a foolish woman can create shadows that terrify her. That is what I did; but they are gone now, all blown away by my dear boy's tender words. And you don't mind my little faults--you will put up with them." I ventured a saving clause. "Yes, Barbara, and I will try to correct them." "Of course you will; I expect you to. But you must do it in a nice way. Long lectures are horrid. When I try to correct yours--for that will be only fair play, John, will it, not?--you will see how gentle I will be." "At the same time, Barbara, while we are correcting each other's faults, we must help ourselves by trying to correct our own."