On the second day out he was helped to a steamer-chair on deck; on the third day, his arm across Ruth's shoulder, he walked from his chair to the foremast and back. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. The problem had returned, made gigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love. I wanted something alive. But she was not sure just how to reach it. " "Are they good?" "He can write; but he hasn't found anything real to write about. Home!— which I never hoped to see again.
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