"I don't know. Perhaps." "She shouldn't read stuff like this!" pronounced the young judge. "Oh, Ruth has always read everything she wanted to." "Yes, I suppose so--more's the pity--best-sellers, anything that's going. But _this_--_this!_ It's not decent for her, for any girl. I don't believe in this modern idea of exposure, anyhow. But here she comes." His face lighted. He put aside the book. "Here Ruth comes!" And he went out into the hall to meet her. I heard the front door open, the rustle of a greeting, and a moment later my sister and Robert Jennings both came in. Ruth had become a shining roseate creature. Always beautiful, always exquisite--flawless features, perfect poise, now she pulsated with life. A new brightness glowed in her eyes. Of late across her cheeks color was wont to come and go like the shadow of clouds on a hillside on a windy day. Even her voice, usually steady and controlled, now and again trembled and broke with sudden emotion. She came into the room smiling, very pretty, very lovely (could we really be children of the same parents?), with a pink rose slipped into the opening of her coat. She drew out her rose and came over and passed it to me. "There," she said, "it's for you, Lucy. I bought it especially!" Such a strange new Ruth! Once so worldly, so selfish; now so sweet and full of queer tenderness. I hardly recognized her. "It's heavenly out-doors," she went on. "I'll be back in a minute." And she went out into the hall to take off her hat and coat. Robert went over to the book he had laid on the table and picked it up. When Ruth joined us he inquired pleasantly, "Where in the world did you run across this, Ruth?" "That?" she smiled. "Oh, I bought it. Everybody is talking about it, and I bought it. It isn't so bad. Some parts are really very nice. I've marked a few I liked." "Why, Ruth," he said solicitously, "it isn't a book for you to read." "That's very sweet and protective, Bob," she laughed gently, "but after all I'm not--what do you call it--early Victorian. I'm twentieth century, and an American at that. Every book printed is for me to read." "Oh, no! I should hope not! Too much of this sort of stuff would rob a girl of every illusion she ever had." "Illusions! Oh, well," she shrugged her shoulders, "who wants illusions? I don't. I want truth, Bob. I want to know everything there is to know in this world, good, bad or indifferent. And you needn't be afraid. It won't hurt me. Truth is good for any one, whether it's pleasant truth or not. It makes one's opinions of more value, if nothing else. And of course you want my opinions to be worth something, don't you?" she wheedled. "But, my dear," complained Bob, "this book represents more lies than it does truth." "Do you think so?" she asked earnestly. "Now I thought it was a wonderfully true portrayal of just how a man and woman would feel under those circumstances."