In only one thing were
their lives at all separated. She took no part in his public life.
She hated the glare of the fierce light that beat upon prominent
lives, the unrest of fame, the disquiet of public careers.
"No," she would answer, when oftentimes he begged her to accompany
him and share his success and honors, "no, I was homeless so long
that 'home' is now my ambition. My babies need me here, and you
need me here when you return, far more than you need me on platform
or parade. Go forth and fight the enemy, storm the battlements and
win the laurels, but let me keep the garrison--here at home, with
our babies all about me and a welcome to our warrior husband and
father when he returns from war."
Then he would laugh and coax again, but always with the same
result. Every day, whether he went forth to the Indian Council
across the river, or when more urgent duties called him to the
Capital, she always stood at the highest window waving her
handkerchief until he was out of sight, and that dainty flag lent
strength to his purpose and courage to his heart, for he knew the
home citadel was there awaiting his return--knew that she would be
at that selfsame window, their children clustered about her skirts,
her welcoming hands waving a greeting instead of a good-bye, as
soon as he faced the home portals once more, and in his heart of
hearts George Mansion felt that his wife had chosen the wiser,
greater part; that their children would some day arise and call her
blessed because she refused to wing away from the home nest, even
if by so doing she left him to take his flights alone.
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