But all the while there was growing in Ethel's mind an intuition that
something was wrong. She had not an analytical mind, but she became
convinced that though she might learn to understand Jim, he could never
understand her. It was not only that she was the first woman who had come
into his life, though that had much to do with it. But he was a man
without much instinct or imagination; he took everything seriously and
literally, he could not understand a whim. And when she saw how her pretty
feminine inconsistencies puzzled him, and how he failed to understand the
whimsical, butterfly fancies she confided to him, she would cry with
vexation, and think she hated him; but then the knightly devotion of his
big heart would win her back again, and her tears would cease to burn her
cheeks, and she would tell herself how unworthy she was of the love of a
man like that. But the trouble was still there; Ethel grew sad, and Jim,
more than ever, failed to understand. The old man watched, but said
nothing.

One evening Jim took her out on the river. It was the summer of '61, when
the North was learning how bitter was the task it had to accomplish.
Kentucky was disputed ground and feeling ran high there; little else was
thought of. Jim had been talking to her for some time on this
all-absorbing topic while she sat silent in the stern, her hand trailing
in the water. Finally he asked why she was so quiet.

"I think this war is very stupid," she said. "Let's talk about"--here she
paused and her eyes followed the big night boat which was churning its way
down the river--"about paddle-wheels, or port lights, or something."

Jim said nothing; he had nothing to say. She went on:--