that. I think he has it in him, and I do not know why he conceals it
from me. It is my only pain. Otherwise he is frank and open with me,
now. I am sure he keeps nothing from me but this. It grieves me that he
should have a secret from me, and sometimes it spoils my sleep, thinking
of it, but I will put it out of my mind; it shall not trouble my
happiness, which is otherwise full to overflowing.

It is not on account of his education that I love him--no, it is not
that. He is self-educated, and does really know a multitude of things,
but they are not so.

It is not on account of his chivalry that I love him--no, it is not
that. He told on me, but I do not blame him; it is a peculiarity of sex,
I think, and he did not make his sex. Of course I would not have told
on him, I would have perished first; but that is a peculiarity of sex,
too, and I do not take credit for it, for I did not make my sex.

Then why is it that I love him? MERELY BECAUSE HE IS MASCULINE, I
think.

At bottom he is good, and I love him for that, but I could love him
without it. If he should beat me and abuse me, I should go on loving
him. I know it. It is a matter of sex, I think.

He is strong and handsome, and I love him for that, and I admire him and
am proud of him, but I could love him without those qualities. If he
were plain, I should love him; if he were a wreck, I should love him;
and I would work for him, and slave over him, and pray for him, and
watch by his bedside until I died.