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Maxwell, W. B., 1866-1938

"The Devil's Garden"

It had begun after the birth of her second child. Then
it was that the love between husband and wife purified itself still
further; and the refining process had continued; they had passed
onward and upward until the beautiful new feelings seemed firmly
established, and, without a word spoken, all the old passion had been
allowed to fade. It was quite another joy now when they kissed or lay
locked in each other's arms: they were a father and a mother, a
brother and sister, comrades--but no longer lovers.
She was surprised once or twice to find how calmly and contentedly she
thought about all this; without the least regret for something that
was and had ceased to be; and without a vestige of the confusion of
ideas which makes women in their ripening years cling to all belonging
or seeming to belong to vanished youth, and to suffer under the loss
of anything they possessed then, even though a better thing has come
to them in its place. She was a woman completing her destined course;
and so that the cycle-curve swept on unbroken, she would be as happy
on the downward sweep as when the sweep was rising.
But in these days, in spite of her mental tranquillity, she could not
sleep well at night; she tossed and turned, muttered and started, as
if the dreams and restlessness that had gone out of Will had found
their way into her.


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