do believe she'll listen to you more than to anybody."

The mother retired, feeling sure that the good man who had known her
daughter for over fifteen years would have a restraining influence now;
and Diantha braced herself for the attack.

It came, heavy and solid, based on reason, religion, tradition, the
custom of ages, the pastoral habit of control and protection, the
father's instinct, the man's objection to a girl's adventure. But it
was courteous, kind, and rationally put, and she met it point by point
with the whole-souled arguments of a new position, the passionate
enthusiasm of her years.

They called a truce.

"I can see that you _think_ its your duty, young, woman--that's the main
thing. I think you're wrong. But what you believe to be right you have
to do. That's the way we learn my dear, that's the way we learn!
Well--you've been a good child ever since I've known you. A remarkably
good child. If you have to sow this kind of wild oats--" they both
smiled at this, "I guess we can't stop you. I'll keep your secret--"

"Its not a secret really," the girl explained, "I'll tell them as soon
as I'm settled. Then they can tell--if they want to." And they both
smiled again.

"Well--I won't tell till I hear of it then. And--yes, I guess I can
furnish that document with a clean conscience."

She gave him paper and pen and he wrote, with a grin, handing her the