Ruth and her family were home again, and Martin, returned to Oakland, saw much of her. Having gained her degree, she was doing no more studying; and h...
The desire to write was stirring in Martin once more. Stories and poems were springing into spontaneous creation in his brain, and he made notes of th...
Came a beautiful fall day, warm and languid, palpitant with the hush of the changing season, a California Indian summer day, with hazy sun and wanderi...
Mrs. Morse did not require a mother's intuition to read the advertisement in Ruth's face when she returned home. The flush that would not leav...
That Ruth had little faith in his power as a writer, did not alter her nor diminish her in Martin's eyes. In the breathing spell of the vacation h...
The weeks passed. Martin ran out of money, and publishers' checks were far away as ever. All his important manuscripts had come back and been star...
Maria Silva was poor, and all the ways of poverty were clear to her. Poverty, to Ruth, was a word signifying a not-nice condition of existence. That w...
Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning. It was late afternoon before he came out of his delirium and gazed with aching eyes about...
The sun of Martin's good fortune rose. The day after Ruth's visit, he received a check for three dollars from a New York scandal weekly in pay...
But success had lost Martin's address, and her messengers no longer came to his door. For twenty-five days, working Sundays and holidays, he toile...