You would not have called Ruthita beautiful in those days. She lacked the fire that goes with beauty. She was too humble in her self-esteem, too self-effacing. But one who had looked closely would have discerned something more lasting than mere physical beauty--the loveliness of a pure spirit looking out from her quiet eyes. She was one of those domestic saints, unaware of their own goodness, that one sometimes finds in middle-class families; women who are never heard of, who live only through their influence on their menfolk’s lives. Her features were small, but perfect. Her figure slight, and buoyant in its carriage. Her complexion white, but ready to suffuse with color at the least sign of appreciation. Her glory was in her hair, which was black and abundant as night. From a child I had always thought that her feet and hands were most beautiful in their fragile tininess. I never told her any of these flattering observations, which would have meant so much if put into words. Brothers don’t--and I was as good as her brother. “Don’t you think,” said Ruthita, “that there’s something awfully queer about Mrs. Carpenter’s marriage? I’ve been with her nearly a week now, and I’ve never heard her mention her husband until to-night.” “And Dorrie doesn’t speak of him either.” “No, I’ve noticed that.” Then Ruthita surprised me. “Do you know, Dante, I think to marry the wrong man must be purgatory.” I was amused at the note of seriousness in her voice. “Ruthie, to hear you speak one’d suppose you’d been in love. Have you ever thought that you’ll have to marry some day?” “Of course I have.” “What’ll he have to be like?” She held her tongue. My jauntiness had made her shy. “Come, Ruthie,” I said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I hate to own that you’re grown up. I didn’t think you’d given a thought to marriage. Tell me, what’ll he have to be like?” I halted, swinging her round so she had to look up in my face. She wore a hunted look of cornered perplexity. “I’ve never spoken of these things even to mother,” she said. “They all treat me as though I were still a child.” I wondered what was her trouble. The searchlight swept her. I saw the eagerness for confession on her trembling mouth. The fire which her beauty had always lacked leapt up. I was amazed at the transformation. She looked reckless. The mask of maidenly tranquillity had slipped aside; I saw all the longing of her unnoticed womanhood focused for an instant in her eyes. The search-light traveled out to sea again. I repeated, “What must he be like?” She reached up to me, so that her lips almost touched mine. “I think he must be like you,” she whispered.