She read over the two lines, wondered where she should keep them now that Johanna might not notice them; and then recoiled, as if the secret were a wrong to that dear sister who loved her so well.
"But nothing makes me love her less; nothing ever could.

She thinks me quite happy, as I am; and yet--oh, if I did not miss him so!" And the aching, aching want which sometimes came over began again.
Let us not blame her.

God made all our human needs.

God made love.
Not merely affection but actual love--the necessity to seek and find out some other being, not another but the complement of one's self--the "other half," who brings rest and strength for weakness, sympathy in aspiration, and tenderness for tenderness, as no other person ever can.

Perhaps, even in marriage, this love is seldom found, and it is possible in all lives to do without it.