voice whispered that everyone had a right to a father as well as
a mother, and Martin might be greatly softened by daily contact
with a little son or daughter. In fairness, she must wait.

Yet, she knew these were not her real reasons. They lay far
deeper, in the very warp and woof of her nature. She did not
leave Martin because she could not. She was incapable of making
drastic changes, of tearing herself from anyone to whom she was
tied by habit and affection--no matter how bitterly the mood of
the moment might demand it. Always she would be bound by
circumstances. True, however hard and adverse they might prove,
she could adapt herself to them with rare patience and dignity,
but never would she be able to compel them to her will, rise
superbly above them, toss them aside. Her life had been, and
would be, shaped largely by others. Her mother's death, the
particular enterprise in which her father's little capital had
been invested, Martin's peculiar temperament --these had moulded
and were moulding Rose Wade. At the time she came to Martin's
shack, she was potentially any one of a half dozen women. It was
inevitable that the particular one into which she would evolve
should be determined by the type of man she might happen to
marry, inevitable that she would become, to a large degree, what
he wished and expected, that her thoughts would take on the
complexion of his. Lacking in strength of character? In power of
resistance, certainly. Time out of mind, such malleability has
been the cross of the Magdalenes. Yet in what else lies the
secret of the harmony achieved by successful wives?

And as, her nausea passing, Rose began to feel a glorious
sensation of vigor, she decided that perhaps, after all, Martin