“He is four years younger than you,” Mrs. Morse said. “He has no place in the world. He has neither position nor salary. He is impractical. Martin Eden, I am afraid, will never grow up. He does not take to responsibility and a man’s work in the world like your father did, or like all our friends, Mr. Butler for example. Martin Eden, I am afraid, will never be a money-earner. And in this world money is necessary for happiness.”

“You see, I do not love him.”

“I am glad of that. I do not want my daughter, who is so clean and pure, to love a man like him. There are noble men in the world who are clean and true and manly. Wait for them. You will find one some day, and you will love him and be loved by him, and you will be happy with him as your father and I have been happy with each other. And there is one thing – “

“Yes, mother.”

Mrs. Morse’s voice was low and sweet as she said, “And that is the children.”

“I – have thought about them.”

“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.

“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.

“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 answer.

“Then we’ll have to get rid of him.” Mr. Morse spoke briskly, in 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.”

The desire to write came to Martin again. He composed the sonnet that was the first of a love-cycle of fifty sonnets which was completed within two months.

“I don’t believe you know a word of what you are reading,” she said once when he had finished reading his sonnets.

He looked at her with burning eyes.

“I don’t believe you know either. What was the last sonnet about?”

“I don’t know,” she laughed frankly. “I’ve already forgotten. Don’t let us read any more. The day is too beautiful.”

The book slipped from his hands to the ground, and they sat idly and silently. Ruth glanced at his neck. Her shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly touches a flower. His lips approached hers.

This must be love, she thought. It could be nothing else than love.

“When did you love me?” she whispered.

“From the first, the very first, the first moment I had seen you. I am mad, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic.”

“I am glad I am a woman, Martin – dear,” she said, after a long sigh.

He crushed her in his arms again and again, and then asked: —

“And you? When did you first know?”

“It came to me suddenly.” She was speaking very slowly. “I never knew until just now when – you put your arms around me. And I never expected to marry you, Martin, not until just now. How did it happen?”

“I don’t know,” he laughed.

“What will my relatives say?” she cried.

“I don’t know.”

“But if mamma objects? I am sure I am afraid to tell her.”

“Let me tell her,” he offered. “I think your mother does not like me, but I can win her sympathy. A fellow who can win you can win anything.”

“I am older than you,” she remarked suddenly, “three years older.”

“Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty years older than you, in experience,” was his answer.

Mrs. Morse read the advertisement in Ruth’s face when she returned home.

“What has happened?” Mrs. Morse asked.

“You know?” Ruth queried, with trembling lips.

“In the name of goodness, child, what happened?” Mrs. Morse was bewildered.

Ruth looked at her mother in surprise.

“I thought you knew. Why, we’re engaged, Martin and I.”

Mrs. Morse laughed.

“No, he didn’t speak,” Ruth explained. “He just loved me, that was all. I was as surprised as you are. He didn’t say a word. He just put his arm around me. And – and I was not myself. And he kissed me, and I kissed him. And then I knew I loved him.”

She paused, but Mrs. Morse was coldly silent.

“It is a dreadful accident, I know. And I don’t know how you will ever forgive me. I did not dream that I loved him until that moment. And you must tell father.”