Each evening when I returned home she greeted me with the brightest
of smiles, and as soon as dinner was over, in our own room, with
my arms around her, she insisted on knowing the history of the day
in detail.

She grasped the situation thoroughly, caressed and encouraged me,
always asserting that everything would come out right in the end.
She had no fear and did not worry.

On the nineteenth of November our child was born.

A boy physically perfect. That his lungs were all right I personally
could swear to, and what sweet music his crying was to my ears when
first I heard it.

A little later I was permitted to enter the room, and did so in
great agitation.

As I kissed my wife and held her hand a few minutes, on her face,
more lovely than ever in her motherhood, was the same sweet smile
and an expression of devotion and love eternal. I looked at the
boy, the new rivet in the chain of love that bound us together,
and then, after another kiss, went quietly from the room.

Heroes, ancient and modern, the world has developed. Heroines,
also have their place in history, but the heroism of a woman in
ordinary life, in trials physical and mental, is something to be
regarded with awe and reverence.