"What a sentimental old woman I am!" she exclaimed. "And, my dear, you talk as though you had just discovered a new and terribly perplexing complication. Don't you know that it is as old as the feminine mind itself?" Her handkerchief came down, then, disclosing eyes that were very bright and very tender. "Why, a woman never loves a man merely for what he is! She always reserves a few little things, at least, which she means--well, to rearrange. She loves him just a bit more for what she secretly promises herself he shall be." Barbara's sullenness was gone. "I know," she whispered. "I thought of that, too, long ago. But it isn't just a--little thing. A few days ago, Miss Sarah, when we took the train to go up north, I could scarcely wait for the engine to draw us there. I think I counted every click of the rails, I know I sang his name in my heart with every click. And then, when I wanted to walk straight off the steps of the car into his arms--when I . . . Why do you sit there and listen and not say that you loathe me as I do myself? I know that he is all man, but his work and my world--oh, when that terrible thing happened, and he came lurching toward me, instead of helping him, do you know what I did? I was sick at the sight of him--sick at the reck and grime and blood of him! I just wanted to get away, and--and shudder at the thought of----" Miss Sarah's composure had returned, but her face grew more sober still. This was a different, a graver thing, even than she had expected. "Your world?" Deliberately now she dared to argue. "Barbara, didn't you know, from the beginning, that his world would have to be yours? Did you ever think that you could change him--that way?" Barbara moved her head. "I wanted both," she said. "I wanted all I have--and him, too. I learned that night he took care of me how much I cared; I know he'd be as careful of me, all his life. But I had thought that he might be able to do as father has done and let other men handle the---- But he knows now! He understands me! I tell you I'm no good. I've no backbone. I'm just pink and white flesh without any spirit!" The other woman sat and smoothed the bright head and wished she knew what to say. "It would please me to know just what stuff she is made of, too," Miss Sarah had once admitted to her brother. She wondered if at last she knew. "I do not know what to tell you," she murmured slowly. "I thought if I talked with you I might be able to help you, but I am afraid now that I cannot. He is a better man than you are woman, Barbara; because he has builded with his hands, he has reared him a soul as well. He knows the depths, and the heights are far more wonderful for such knowledge. Oh, dear me, I wish I knew----" She paused there, shaken by her own impotence. Doubt and aching regret were overwhelming her.