One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. She approached Ruth with open arms; and something in the way the child came into that kindly embrace hurt the older woman to the point of tears. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. Deny me, if you please. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. I must practise what I preach. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. ‘Me, I do not need the help of anyone.
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