“He is four years younger than you,” she said.  “He has no place in the world.  He has neither position nor salary.  He is impractical.  Loving you, he should, in the name of common sense, be doing something that would give him the right to marry, instead of paltering around with those stories of his and with childish dreams.  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 one.  Martin Eden, I am afraid, will never be a money-earner.  And this world is so ordered that money is necessary to happiness—­oh, no, not these swollen fortunes, but enough of money to permit of common comfort and decency.  He—­he has never spoken?”

“He has not breathed a word.  He has not attempted to; but if he did, I would not let him, because, you see, I do not love him.”

“I am glad of that.  I should not care to see my daughter, my one daughter, who is so clean and pure, 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 you must always carry in mind—­”

“Yes, mother.”

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

“I—­have thought about them,” Ruth confessed, remembering the wanton thoughts that had vexed her in 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.