His love was great, but also he was eating out his big heart with remorse.

The root of his trouble was the child.

He never talked of her, and neither did Ruth dwell upon her name.

Yet they thought of little else while they sat together.
And even if they had been minded to talk of the child, what had they to say of her?
They had no memories to recall, no sweet childish sayings, no simple broken speech, no pretty lisp--they had nothing to bring back out of any harvest of the past of all the dear delicious wealth that lies stored in the treasure-houses of the hearts of happy parents.

That way everything was a waste.