her to
the core--although by this time she knew most of his faults. It was
not so much that she loved him in spite of them, but she simply could
not imagine him changed in any way without losing a part of him, and
that idea was both intolerable and incredible to her. Just as he was,
she clung to him and became one with him.

I know it seems ridiculous to describe a love like that, and it is
certainly impossible to explain it. It is not common, nor regular, nor
altogether justifiable by precept and authority. Reason is against it;
and the doctors of the church have always spoken severely of the
indulgence of any human affection that verges on idolatry. But the
fact remains that there are a few women in the world who are capable
of such a passion.

Capable? No, that is not the word. They are created for it. They
cannot help it. It is not a virtue, it is simply a quality. Their
whole being depends upon their love. They hang upon it, as a wreath
hangs from a nail in the wall. If it breaks they are broken. If it
holds they are happy. Other things interest them and amuse them, of
course, but there is only one thing that really counts--to love and to
be loved.

Toinette was a woman of that rare race. To the outward view she was
just a pretty French Canadian girl with an oval face, brown hair, and
eyes like a very dark topaz. Her hands were small, but rather red and
rough. Her voice was rich and vibrant, like the middle notes of a
'cello, but she spoke a dialect that was as rustic as a cabbage. Her
science was limited to enough arithmetic to enable her to keep
accounts, her art to the gift of singing a very lovely contralto by
ear, and her notions of history bordered on the miraculous. She was
obstinate, superstitious, and at times quick-tempered. But she had a
positive genius for loving. That raised her into the first rank, and
enabled her to bestow as much happiness on Prosper as if she had been
a queen.

It was a grief to them, of course, that they had no children. But this
grief did not destroy, nor even diminish, their felicity in each
other; it was like the soft shadow of a cloud passing over a
landscape--the sun was still shining and the world was fair. They were
too happy to be discontented. And their fortunes were thriving, too,
so that they were kept pretty hard at work--which, next to love, is
the best antidote for unhappiness.

After the death of the old _bonhomme_ Girard, the store fell to
Prosper; and his