catch on the front-door lock, then come upstairs, calling out softly,
"You awake?" He always knew I was. Then, sitting on the edge of the bed,
he would tell all the happenings since I had seen him last. Once in a
while he'd sigh and say, "A little ranch up on the Clearwater would go
pretty well about now, wouldn't it, my girl?" And I would sigh, and say,
"Oh dear, wouldn't it?"

I remember once, when we were first married, he got home one afternoon
before I did. When I opened the door to our little Seattle apartment,
there he was, walking the floor, looking as if the bottom had dropped
out of the universe. "I've had the most awful twenty minutes," he
informed me, "simply terrible. Promise me absolutely that never, never
will you let me get home before you do. To expect to find you home and
then open the door into empty rooms--oh, I never lived through such a
twenty minutes!" We had a lark's whistle that we had used since before
our engaged days. Carl would whistle it under my window at the Theta
house in college, and I would run down and out the side door, to the
utter disgust of my well-bred "sisters," who arranged to make cutting
remarks at the table about it in the hope that I would reform my
"servant-girl tactics." That whistle was whistled through those early
Seattle days, through Oakland, through Cambridge, Leipzig, Berlin,
Heidelberg, Munich, Swanage, Berkeley, Alamo in the country, Berkeley
again (he would start it way down the hill so I could surely hear),
Castle Crags, and Seattle. Wherever any of us were in the house, it
meant a dash for all to the front door--to welcome the Dad home.

One evening I was scanning some article on marriage by the fire in
Seattle--it was one of those rare times that Carl too was at home and
going over lectures for the next day. It held that, to be successful,
marriage had to be an adjustment--a giving in here by the man, there by