“Would it not be better not to tell your father?  Let me see Martin Eden, and talk with him, and explain.  He will understand and release you.”

“No! no!” Ruth cried, starting up.  “I do not want to be released.  I love him, and love is very sweet.  I am going to marry him—­of course, if you will let me.”

“We have other plans for you, Ruth, dear, your father and I—­oh, no, no; no man picked out for you, or anything like that.  Our plans go no farther than your marrying some man in your own station in life, a good and honorable gentleman, whom you will select yourself, when you love him.”

“But I love Martin already,” was the plaintive protest.

“We would not influence your choice in any way; but you are our daughter, and we could not bear to see you make a marriage such as this.  He has nothing but roughness and coarseness to offer you in exchange for all that is refined and delicate in you.  He is no match for you in any way.  He could not support you.  We have no foolish ideas about wealth, but comfort is another matter, and our daughter should at least marry a man who can give her that—­and not a penniless adventurer, a sailor, a cowboy, a smuggler, and Heaven knows what else, who, in addition to everything, is hare-brained and irresponsible.”

Ruth was silent.  Every word she recognized as true.

“He wastes his time over his writing, trying to accomplish what geniuses and rare men with college educations sometimes accomplish.  A man thinking of marriage should be preparing for marriage.  But not he.  As I have said, and I know you agree with me, he is irresponsible.  And why should he not be?  It is the way of sailors.  He has never learned to be economical or temperate.  The spendthrift years have marked him.  It is not his fault, of course, but that does not alter his nature.  And have you thought of the years of licentiousness he inevitably has lived?  Have you thought of that, daughter?  You know what marriage means.”

Ruth shuddered and clung close to her mother.

“I have thought.”  Ruth waited a long time for the thought to frame itself.  “And it is terrible.  It sickens me to think of it.  I told you it was a dreadful accident, my loving him; but I can’t help myself.  Could you help loving father?  Then it is the same with me.  There is something in me, in him—­I never knew it was there until to-day—­but it is there, and it makes me love him.  I never thought to love him, but, you see, I do,” she concluded, a certain faint triumph in her voice.

They talked long, and to little purpose, in conclusion agreeing to wait an indeterminate time without doing anything.

The same conclusion was reached, a little later that night, between Mrs. Morse and her husband, after she had made due confession of the miscarriage of her plans.

“It could hardly have come otherwise,” was Mr. Morse’s judgment.  “This sailor-fellow has been the only man she was in touch with.  Sooner or later she was going to awaken anyway; and she did awaken, and lo! here was this sailor-fellow, the only accessible man at the moment, and of course she promptly loved him, or thought she did, which amounts to the same thing.”