He mailed the bulky manuscript to The Youth’s Companion, and on Saturday afternoon, after having planned an article on pearl-diving, he went to see Ruth.  He had telephoned, and she went herself to greet him at the door.  The old familiar blaze of health rushed out from him and struck her like a blow.  It seemed to enter into her body and course through her veins in a liquid glow, and to set her quivering with its imparted strength.  He flushed warmly as he took her hand and looked into her blue eyes, but the fresh bronze of eight months of sun hid the flush, though it did not protect the neck from the gnawing chafe of the stiff collar.  She noted the red line of it with amusement which quickly vanished as she glanced at his clothes.  They really fitted him,—­it was his first made-to-order suit,—­and he seemed slimmer and better modelled.  In addition, his cloth cap had been replaced by a soft hat, which she commanded him to put on and then complimented him on his appearance.  She did not remember when she had felt so happy.  This change in him was her handiwork, and she was proud of it and fired with ambition further to help him.

But the most radical change of all, and the one that pleased her most, was the change in his speech.  Not only did he speak more correctly, but he spoke more easily, and there were many new words in his vocabulary.  When he grew excited or enthusiastic, however, he dropped back into the old slurring and the dropping of final consonants.  Also, there was an awkward hesitancy, at times, as he essayed the new words he had learned.  On the other hand, along with his ease of expression, he displayed a lightness and facetiousness of thought that delighted her.  It was his old spirit of humor and badinage that had made him a favorite in his own class, but which he had hitherto been unable to use in her presence through lack of words and training.  He was just beginning to orientate himself and to feel that he was not wholly an intruder.  But he was very tentative, fastidiously so, letting Ruth set the pace of sprightliness and fancy, keeping up with her but never daring to go beyond her.

He told her of what he had been doing, and of his plan to write for a livelihood and of going on with his studies.  But he was disappointed at her lack of approval.  She did not think much of his plan.

“You see,” she said frankly, “writing must be a trade, like anything else.  Not that I know anything about it, of course.  I only bring common judgment to bear.  You couldn’t hope to be a blacksmith without spending three years at learning the trade—­or is it five years!  Now writers are so much better paid than blacksmiths that there must be ever so many more men who would like to write, who—­try to write.”

“But then, may not I be peculiarly constituted to write?” he queried, secretly exulting at the language he had used, his swift imagination throwing the whole scene and atmosphere upon a vast screen along with a thousand other scenes from his life—­scenes that were rough and raw, gross and bestial.