asily done," she answered softly, "because doubt is the child of
love."

"But you do not doubt me?" he replied.

"N-o-o," she answered somewhat haltingly; "but I--I am a woman."

"And a woman's heart is the home of faith," said John, reverentially.

"Y-e-s," she responded, still not quite sure of her ground. "Sometimes it
is the home of too much faith, but faith, like virtue, is its own reward.
Few persons are false to one who gives a blind, unquestioning faith. Even
a poor degree of honor responds to it in kind."

"Dorothy, I am so unworthy of you that I stand abashed in your presence,"
replied John.

"No, you are not unworthy of me. We don't look for unmixed good in men,"
said the girl with a mischievous little laugh. Then seriously: "Those
virtues you have are so great and so strong, John, that my poor little
virtues, while they perhaps are more numerous than yours, are but weak
things by comparison. In truth, there are some faults in men which we
women do not--do not altogether dislike. They cause us--they make us--oh,
I cannot express exactly what I mean. They make us more eager perhaps. A
too constant man is like an overstrong sweet: he cloys us. The faults I
speak of hurt us; but we thrive on them. Women enjoy pain now and then.
Malcolm was telling me the other day that the wise people of the East have
a saying: 'Without shadow there can be no light; without death there can
be no life; without suffering there can be no joy.' Surely is that saying
true of women. She who suffers naught enjoys naught. When a woman becomes
passive, John, she is but a clod. Pain gives us a vent--a vent for
something, I know not what it is; but this I know, we are happier for it."

"I fear, Dorothy, that I have given you too much 'vent,' as you call it,"
said John.

"No, no," she replied. "That was nothing. My great vent is that I can pour
out my love upon you, John, without stint. Now that I know you are mine, I
have some one whom I can deluge with it. Do you know, John, I believe that
when God made me He collected together the requisite portions of reason,
imagination, and will,--there was a great plenty of will, John,--and all
the other ingredients that go to make a human being. But after He had
gotten them all together there was still a great space left to be filled,
and He just threw in an immensity of love with which to complete me.
Therefore, John, am I not in true proportion. There is too much love in
me, and it wells u