In thought she entered the well-proportioned door--the Gate of Happiness--and a musty smell greeted her--she had forgotten to throw out those flowers! She turned to the parlor--no, the piano keys were gritty, one had to clean them twice a day to keep that room as she liked it.
From room to room she flitted, in her mind, trying to recall the exquisite things they meant to her when she had planned them; and each one now opened glaring and blank, as a place to work in--and the work undone.
"If I were an abler woman!" she breathed.

And then her common sense and common honesty made her reply to herself: "I am able enough--in my own work! Nobody can do everything.

I don't believe Edgar'd do it any better than I do .-- He don't have to!"-- and then such a wave of bitterness rushed over her that she was afraid, and reached out one hand to touch the crib--the other to her husband.
He awakened instantly.

"What is it, Dear ?" he asked.

"Too tired to sleep, you poor darling?
But you do love me a little, don't you ?" "O _yes_!" she answered.