“It seems to me,” I said, “that the whole art of marriage is the art of getting on with the other fellow. It means patience, self-control, forbearance. It means the laying aside of our self-conceit and admitting to ourselves that, judged by eyes less partial than our own, there may be much in us that is objectionable, that calls for alteration. It means toleration for views and opinions diametrically opposed to our most cherished convictions. It means, of necessity, the abandonment of many habits and indulgences that however trivial have grown to be important to us. It means the shaping of our own desires to the needs of others; the acceptance often of surroundings and conditions personally distasteful to us. It means affection deep and strong enough to bear away the ugly things of life—its quarrels, wrongs, misunderstandings—swiftly and silently into the sea of forgetfulness. It means courage, good humour, commonsense.” “That is what I am saying,” explained Robina. “It means loving him even when he’s naughty.” Dick came across the fields. Robina rose and slipped into the house. “You are looking mighty solemn, Dad,” said Dick. “Thinking of Life, Dick,” I confessed. “Of the meaning and the explanation of it.” “Yes, it’s a problem, Life,” admitted Dick. “A bit of a teaser,” I agreed. We smoked in silence for awhile. “Loving a good woman must be a tremendous help to a man,” said Dick. He looked very handsome, very gallant, his boyish face flashing challenge to the Fates. “Tremendous, Dick,” I agreed. Robina called to him that his supper was ready. He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and followed her into the house. Their laughing voices came to me broken through the half-closed doors. From the night around me rose a strange low murmur. It seemed to me as though above the silence I heard the far-off music of the Mills of God. CHAPTER XI I FANCY Veronica is going to be an authoress. Her mother thinks this may account for many things about her that have been troubling us. The story never got far. It was laid aside for the more alluring work of play-writing, and apparently forgotten. I came across the copy-book containing her “Rough Notes” the other day. There is decided flavour about them. I transcribe selections; the spelling, as before, being my own.