the past, her face again red with maiden
shame that she should be telling such things.

"And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively. "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am
afraid, not clean. Your father has told me of sailors' lives, and--and
you understand."

Ruth pressed her mother's hand in assent, feeling that she really did
understand, though her conception was of something vague, remote, and
terrible that was beyond the scope of imagination.

"You know I do nothing without telling you," she began. "--Only,
sometimes you must ask me, like this time. I wanted to tell you, but I
did not know how. It is false modesty, I know it is that, but you can
make it easy for me. Sometimes, like this time, you must ask me, you
must give me a chance."

"Why, mother, you are a woman, too!" she cried exultantly, as they stood
up, catching her mother's hands and standing erect, facing her in the
twilight, conscious of a strangely sweet equality between them. "I
should never have thought of you in that way if we had not had this talk.
I had to learn that I was a woman to know that you were one, too."

"We are women together," her mother said, drawing her to her and kissing
her. "We are women together," she repeated, as they went out of the
room, their arms around each other's waists, their hearts swelling with a
new sense of companionship.

"Our little girl has become a woman," Mrs. Morse said proudly to her
husband an hour later.

"That means," he said, after a long look at his wife, "that means she is
in love."

"No, but that she is loved," was the smiling rejoinder. "The experiment
has succeeded. She is awakened at last."

"Then we'll have to get rid of him." Mr. Morse spoke briskly, in matter-
of-fact, businesslike tones.

But his wife shook her head. "It will not be necessary. Ruth says he is
going to sea in a few days. When he comes back, she will not be here. We
will send her to Aunt Clara's. And, besides, a year in the East, with
the change in climate, people, ideas, and everything, is just the thing
she needs."

CHAPTER XX

The desire to write was stirring in Martin once more. Stories and poems
were springing into spontaneous creation in his brain, and he made notes
of them against the future time when he would give them expression. But
he did not write. This was his little vacation; he had resolved to
devote it to rest and