The first days in the woods were distressing for Yetta. The strain of the journey had prostrated Isadore; she was afraid he was going to have a serious relapse. But he slept off the fatigue—fourteen and eighteen hours a day at first. And he soon regained his appetite. They got fresh milk and eggs and garden truck from a near-by farmer, and three times a week a man came in a boat with other provisions from the town at the foot of the lake. Isadore began to put on flesh and very gradually to regain his strength.

When the first worry was over, Yetta entered into a period of perfect peace. The conviction which had grown on her gradually—unnoticed at first—that she "really loved" Isadore, solidified. She had counted on finding it pleasant to take care of him; she had found it so in the city, it proved unexpectedly sweet here in the woods. In New York she had been only an accident; a dozen others could have nursed him just as well. Here she was all he had. Here too she could give all her time to him. He was as helpless as a baby at first, and submitted docilely to her loving tyranny. She had never "kept house" for any one before. In the kitchen of the little cabin—walking about on tiptoe, so as not to disturb his health-bringing sleep—she found a very real delight in the new experience of cooking a meal for her man, in washing and mending his clothes.

Even more pleasant to her was the utter intimacy which their isolation forced on them. Whenever he was awake, they talked—of everything under the sun, except The Clarion. They had agreed to forget that. After a couple of weeks, when he had grown a little stronger, she read to him. She found it embarrassing at first, almost as if it were immodest. She had never read aloud before. The joy of books had been something entirely individual. She was unaccustomed to launch out on the adventure of a new point of view in company. But after the first diffidence had worn off, it proved an undreamed-of delight. Now and again one or the other would interrupt the reading to think out loud. "Let's hear that again," he would say. Or, "I must read that passage over. Isn't it fine?" she would break out.

Almost all of Isadore's reading had been historical or scientific. He had no idea of grace in writing. "Force" and "Truth" were the only literary qualities he recognized. Meredith, who had been one of Yetta's favorites rather weakened under his incisive criticism. Zola's "Labor" they both liked. Poetry generally went wrong. Swinburne, whose luxurious music hypnotized Yetta past all comprehension of what he was talking about, disgusted Isadore—until Yetta came to "The lie on the lips of the priests and the blood on the hands of the Kings."

"That's good business," Isadore said. "Why didn't he stick to that style?"

It was the other way round with Henley. He fared better at first. Isadore liked the hospital verses. But when they came to "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul," Isadore revolted.

"Do you really suppose he believed that rot?"

"Of course," Yetta said. "Don't you?"

"Not for a minute. You've been the master of my fate these last few years."

Naturally Yetta forgave him for disagreeing with Henley.

But there was a cloud in the sky—even these delicious, peaceful days. Yetta vaguely dreaded the time when Isadore would be quite well. She was no longer the unsophisticated girl who had promised to live with Harry Klein without knowing what it meant. She knew it was impossible to continue this pleasant relationship of nurse and patient. Sooner or later he would revolt from his rÔle—he would want something quite different from nursing.

Contrary to her custom Yetta did not face this situation frankly. She tried to avoid thinking of it. When it forced itself on her, she told herself, "Of course I want children." Almost every time she had heard this business of maternity referred to, its painful side had been emphasized. She had heard a great deal about the "heroism of motherhood." Her attitude towards the sexual side of marriage was very like her attitude to the dentist. And no matter how firmly we have decided to go to the dentist, we are a bit reluctant about starting. Yetta did what she could to postpone the duty she had firmly decided to perform stoically and gamely.

She really thought about this matter surprisingly little. All she had read in the poets about the joys of passionate love she thought of as romantic, and she was in full reaction against romance. In real life she had never encountered any one who even remotely resembled HeloÏse or Francesca or Melisande or the Queen Isolde. The married women she knew, the mothers of children, did not give any sign of such dizzying emotions.

The reality of love she had decided was a spiritual matter. The night Isadore had kissed her in the dark of the office, she had been too frightened to appreciate it as a caress. He had never stirred her emotions as Walter had. She was not afraid to think of them both at the same time any more. She calmly knew that her love for Isadore was the more real. But still she could not look forward to his complete recovery without a slight tremor.

When Isadore seemed on the point of talking about this, she adroitly changed the subject. She always came to his room to kiss him "good night," and the first thing in the morning after she was dressed she came to his bedside and kissed him "good morning." But although she was naturally demonstrative, she carefully avoided any disturbing caresses.

As Isadore gained strength the crisis inevitably approached. One moonlight night, out on the Lake in their guide boat, Isadore, who had been lazily rowing, rested on his oars.

"Yetta," he said. "Sometimes I have a horrible thought—I wonder if you really love me."

Yetta, stretched out on the cushions in the stern-sheets, had been perfectly happy—at least as happy as she knew how to be—before he spoke. She knew at once what he meant, and it troubled her.

"Why, what do you mean?" she said, to gain time.

"I wonder if you know what it means—what love means—to a man?"

"I know what it means to a well man," she said.

Isadore began rowing again. Of course Yetta did not know what love means to a well man. She knew that she did not know. She was shocked at herself for the spirit of hostility which had shown in her answer.

"Isadore," she said in a few minutes, "dearest, I love you very, very much. Aren't you content? It seems so sweet to me, just to be together like this. Aren't you content?"

Isadore—like many men of his race—was instinctively wise in regard to women. He did not have to think over his reply.

"No," he said laconically.

He rowed on in silence for several minutes. He did not understand, but he sensed, Yetta's trouble. She was trembling on the threshold of the Great Mystery. When he spoke again, it was to calm and reassure her. Ashore, they sat for a long time in the moonlight, hand in hand. He did nothing to frighten her, and she felt flooded by his tenderness.

A week later he brought up the subject again. They had climbed a mountain in the morning. To be sure, it was a small one, but still a mountain. He had slept most of the afternoon. When supper was over, she read to him a while, and then sent him to bed. When she came to his room to kiss him "good night," he put his arms about her and—as though to show that he was really strong again—he crushed her tightly in his embrace.

"Dearie," he said. "Is your name Yetta or Not-yetta?"

"Not-quite-yet-ta," she panted.

* * * * *

The black fly season had passed, the leaves had begun to turn, before they packed up their meagre belongings to go back to the city and work. It had commenced to get cold, but on their last day the sun came out as if it were July.

They rowed across the lake to bid farewell to a great pine tree they had come to love. It stood alone on a little promontory, a hundred feet above the water. Its mates had fallen before the storms. Its loneliness emphasized its magnificent grandeur. There was a rich cushion of needles at its foot, and the view across the lake was exquisite.

The last month of their stay in the woods had been a veritable honeymoon. There was no spot on the lake so closely associated with their ardent emotions as this giant pine tree. Many times during the hot spell of August they had brought rugs and pillows and spent the night at its foot—bathing in the water below at sunrise.

When they had moored their boat and clambered up the steep bank, Isadore sat down, leaning against the trunk of their tree. Yetta stretched out on the carpet of pine needles and rested her head on his knee. Isadore ran his hand through her hair and now and again caressed her cheek. For some time they were silent—both rather oppressed by the idea that on the morrow they must go back to the city. They would no longer be alone together; much of this dear intimacy would have to be sacrificed to work.

Yetta suddenly turned and looked up into his face.

"Ib," she began. This name which she had concocted out of his initials—in spite of its absurdity—had the most tender connotation of any word in their vocabulary À deux—"Ib, there is something I want to tell you."

And then she stopped. Isadore, impressed her by seriousness, waited patiently for her to speak.

"It's hard to find words for it," she went on at last. "But I want you to know that I've been happier these weeks than I ever dreamed any one could be. This—" their vocabulary À deux had many lacunae—"It's been so different from what I expected. It isn't that I was afraid—only I was a little. I didn't think love would be like this. You see I hate to darn my own stockings—but I really enjoy darning yours. I guess that's inherently feminine. No service is really unpleasant when it's for the one we love. And I was ready to do any service for you—gladly. Can you understand what I'm trying to say? Well. It's been a surprise—a dizzying, joyous surprise. It isn't a service at all. It's—" Once more words failed her. "You remember one night you asked me if I really loved you. I thought I did then. I didn't know what I was talking about. But now—now that I know"—she brushed the foolish tears out of her eyes and reached up her hand to his cheek—"I really, really love you.

"Please. I don't want to be loved just now. I want to talk.

"What bothers me," she went on in a moment, "is that I was ignorant. Why? Why didn't I know about this? I knew about the physiology of love, but that is only so very little of it. I'd read Forel; everybody says that is the best book on sex. But that did not tell me. I've talked with a few women. They either haven't said anything or they've been hostile—they spoke of the 'burden of sex' or of 'woman's sacrifice to man.' Why did not some one tell me the truth, so that I would not have been dismayed? So I might have been altogether glad? It seems so evident that ignorance is bad—and dangerous."

"Of course it's dangerous," he replied. "There is only one thing more dangerous than ignorance—that's misinformation. That's where young men suffer. I've thought about this a lot, Yetta. It's hideous. Long before any one ever told me anything that was true, I had learned so much that was false. Men learn their first lessons of sex from women—poor, pallid women who have never known what love was. It doesn't matter whether a boy goes to them or not. Indirectly, if not directly, he learns their lore. The older boys who tell him about women have learned from them.

"Prostitution is the blackest blot on this civilization we Socialists are trying to overthrow. In spite of the hypocrisy which tries to ignore its existence it is just as fundamental an institution as the churches and armies. Present society could not exist without these women any more than it could without its warships and worships. It's hideous in so many ways. But the point we don't hear about so often is that these women, whom we despise and consistently degrade, are the teachers who instruct our youth in this business of sex. It is the holiest thing in life. Its priestesses are the most polluted class in the community. Not that I blame them. They are victims. But they get their revenge—a horrible revenge.

"Our girls are kept in ignorance about sex. It's very few of them, Yetta, who have read a book like Forel's. And the boys are sent to school in the brothels. Most brides come to this business of sex, thinking of it—a bit timorously—as a Great White Sacrifice to Love. Most men think of sex as the climax of a spree. That any such marriages are happy is a wonder to me."

"But why doesn't some one have the courage to tell the truth?" Yetta exclaimed.

"It isn't as simple as that," he replied. "It isn't so much a question of courage as it is of ability. You,—if a young woman asked you,—could you tell her? I couldn't if a boy asked me. I could tell him about the mechanism of sex—just as Forel and a dozen writers have done. There are plenty of technical words. But I'd have to stop there. The reality can't be expressed in scientific language—and the gutter words are false when you talk of love. I'll warrant that you wouldn't like to tackle the job."

"It would be hard," she admitted. And then—"But isn't there any hope? Must there always be this misunderstanding?"

"Oh, no! At first, with primitive man, there wasn't any such misunderstanding—there was just lack of understanding. Love is such a new thing in the history of life that we are just vaguely beginning to understand it. Man—we say—is an animal who has gained consciousness of self. But this did not happen suddenly. It must have taken thousands and thousands of years. The process is not yet complete. Out of general consciousness the animal that was becoming man, gradually, in one point after another, won self-consciousness. Gradually sex became a little more than the simple reflex act that we see in the lower animals to-day—forgotten as soon as accomplished. It was not until what we call the Middle Ages that man became conscious of something more in love than physical passion. The love affairs of Mary, Queen of Scots, would seem very unspiritual to us to-day. And think how very recent that was compared to the date of the Stone Age. It was only in the last century that the romantic idea took possession of literature. Like all new ideas it was full of extravagances. Now we call ourselves Realists—the necessary reaction. But there is more of the new spirit of love in Zola than Shakespeare ever dreamed of. I doubt if he would recognize a modern production of Romeo and Juliet any more than Christ would recognize his service in a High Mass.

"As we begin to get used to this startlingly new concept of love, we'll develop the words to express it. It's too big a task to be accomplished by one brain or one generation."

They fell silent again. Yetta, looking off across the lake,—unconscious of the beauty of the view,—was thinking desperately of this matter of love, and was realizing with pain, as all who try to write must do, her utter inability to express what this Mystery of Love meant to her. She could not even tell Isadore.

Her girlish romance about Walter seemed to her now almost as empty as her affair with Harry Klein. She had at first given herself to Isadore on a rather intellectual basis. She knew him profoundly before she had married him. She had been quite sure of a life of loving comradeship and mutual understanding. From a matter of fact, work-a-day point of view the marriage was to be as satisfactory as she could imagine. And to all this had been added an unexpected element—this mystic, unexpressible joy of sex. Yetta had the sense to know that she was fortunate above most women. She looked up at the dear face above her, hoping to find some gesture to express the overflowing happiness for which she could find no words. She was struck by the look of intense thought on his face.

"What are you thinking about, Ib?"

He started, as he came back from his revery.

"I've been thinking," he said, "that we'll have to be awfully tactful when we get back to the office. Smith and Levine have been running things so long by themselves that it's only human for them to be a bit jealous about our coming back."

These words caused a very complicated mix-up in Yetta's mind.

The hereditary woman in her, the part of her which was formed by the myriad wives who had been her ancestors, shuddered as though under the lash at the idea that on this very last day his thoughts had gone so far away. Every cell in her brain had been intent on him. She had just decided that no one had ever loved any one as much as she loved him—and he had been thinking of the office. A tidal wave of tears started instinctively towards her eyes.

But all that was modern about Yetta, all that part of her which had learned to reason, was suffused with tenderness, as the other part of her would have been by a caress. She was proud of the single-minded devotion of her man. She was not surprised at the tangent along which his thoughts had flown. She had the immense advantage over most brides, that she knew her husband. She knew the depth of sincerity which was sometimes obscured by his pedantic phrases. She had learned to love him. She had been spared the pain of discovering a reality back of a dream of love. The only new thing she had learned about him since their marriage was the wealth of tenderness back of his rather rough exterior,—the gentle consideration that lay under his rugged manners,—the undreamed-of sweetness which was hidden to most eyes by his evident force. She was not disillusioned by intimacy.

For a few minutes she let him talk about the work that was awaiting them. She was as much interested in it as he. But at last the hereditary woman within her reminded her that after all this was their last day of solitude. She stopped listening to him and considered the matter from this point of view for a moment. Then she shamelessly interrupted him in the midst of a ponderous sentence.

"Ib," she said, "I love you."

They had been back in the city many months before their faces lost the mark of the sun. In due course of time Comrade Yetta Braun qualified to edit the "Mother's Column."