watch her sweet, dimpled face and the dark eyes grow large with
wonder; to hear her simple, naive remarks, her original ideas; to
see her pretty, artless ways; above all, it was pleasant to be so
dearly loved.

He often thought that there never had been, never could be, a
wife so loving as Dora. He could not teach her much, although he
tried hard. She sang simple little ballads sweetly and clearly;
but although master after master tried his best, she could never
be taught to play--not even as much as the easy accompaniments
of her own songs. Ronald hoped that with time and attention she
would be able to sketch, but Dora never managed it. Obediently
enough she took pencil and paper in her hands and tried, but the
strokes would never come straight. Sometimes the drawing she
made would resemble something so comical that both she and Ronald
laughed heartily; while the consciousness of her own inferiority
grieved her, and large, bright tears would frequently fall upon
the paper. Then Ronald would take the pencils away, and Dora
would cling around his neck and ask him if he would not have been
happier with a cleverer wife.

"No, a thousand times, no," he would say; he loved Dora better in
her artless simplicity than he could have loved the cleverest
woman in the world.

"And you are quite sure," said Dora, "that you will never repent
marrying me?"

"No, again," was the reply. "You are the crowning joy of my
life."