ke, at least, of whose mental precocity we had never met
with in any other daughter--much less, son--of Eve! A woman, for we so
loved her, endowed as are few women; yet assuredly a child, for she had
but just counted twenty years on earth. And being men of careful
maturity, once Susan had left us, our lonely anxieties fastened upon
this crying fact of her youth; it was her youth, her inexperience, that
made her venture suddenly pathetic and dreadful to us, made us yearn to
watch over her, warn her of pitfalls, guide her steps.

True, she was not alone. Miss Goucher was admirable in her way; though
a middle-aged spinster, after all, unused to the sharp temptations and
fierce competitions of metropolitan life. It was not a house-mother
Susan would need; the wolves lurked beyond the door--shrewd,
soft-treading wolves, cunningly disguised. How could a child, a charming
and too daring child--however gifted--be expected to deal with these
creatures? The thought of these subtle, these patient ones, tracking
her--tracking her--chilled us to hours-long wakefulness in the night!
Then with the morning a letter would come, filled with strange men's
names.

We compared notes, consulted together--shaking unhappy heads. We wrote
tactful letters to Heywood Sampson, begging him, but always indirectly,
to keep an eye. We ran down singly for nights in town, rescued--the verb
was ours--Susan and Miss Goucher from their West 10th Street
boarding-house, interfered with their work or other plans, haled
them--the verb, I fear, was theirs--to dinner, to the opera or theater,
or perhaps to call on someone of ribbed respectability who might prove
an observant friend. God knows, in spite of all resolutions, we did our
poor best to mind Susan's business for her, to brood over her destiny
from afar!

And God knows our efforts were superfluous! The traps, stratagems,
springes in her path, merely suspected by us and hence the more darkly
dreaded, were clearly seen by Susan and laughed at for the ancient,
pitiful frauds they were. The dull craft, the stale devices of avarice
or lust were no novelties to her; she greeted them, _en passant_, with
the old Birch Street terrier-look; just a half-mocking nod of
recognition--an amused, half-wistful salute to her gamin past. It was
her gamin past we had forgotten, Phil and I, when we agonized over
Susan's inexperienced youth. Inexperienced? Bob Blake's kid! If there
were things New York could yet teach Bob