This she had learned from seeing a costermonger fill his cart with children, and push behind, while the donkey in front pulled them along the street, to the praise and glory of God.
She was overbearing in one thing, and that was submission.

Once, when I was in her husband's study, she made a remark on something he had said or written, I forget what, for which her conscience of love immediately smote her.

She threw herself on the floor, crept under the writing table at which he sat, and clasped his knees.
"I beg your pardon, husband," she said sorrowfully.
"Helen," he cried, laughing rather oddly, "you will make a consummate idiot of me before you have done." "Forgive me," she pleaded.
"I can't forgive you.

How can I forgive where there is positively nothing to be forgiven ?" "I don't care what you say; I know better; you _must_ forgive me." "Nonsense!" "Forgive me." "Do get up.

Don't be silly." "Forgive me.