Mrs. Moody began again, impatiently. This time it was clearer to Ruth ... Once she had tried to do something like this thing she was hearing about--and that was why she was here... It had something to do with her being sick... And with Bonbright... It was hard to remember.

"Even the floor sweepers git it," said Mrs. Moody, interpreting the news story. "Everybody gits five dollars a day at least, and some gits more."

"Everybody?..." said Ruth. "HE'S--giving it to--them?"

"This Mr. Foote is. Yes."

Suddenly Ruth began to cry, weakly, feebly. "I didn't help," she wailed, like an infant. Her voice was no stronger. "He did it alone--all alone... I wasn't there..."

"No, you was right here. Where would you be?"

"I wonder--if he did--it--for me?" Her voice was piteous, pleading.

"For you? What in goodness name have YOU got to do with it? He did it for all them men--thousands of 'em.... And jest think what it'll mean to 'em!... It'll be like heaven comin' to pa.s.s."

"What--have I--got to do--with it?" Ruth repeated, and then cried out with grief. "Nothing... Nothing.... NOTHING. If I'd never been born--he would have done it--just the same."

"To be sure," said Mrs. Moody, wondering. "I guess your head hain't jest right to-day."

"Read... Please read... Every word. Don't miss a word."

"Well, I swan! You be int'rested. I never see the like." And the good woman read on, not skipping a word.

Ruth followed as best she could, seeing dimly, but, seeing that the thing that was surpa.s.sed was the thing she had once sacrificed herself in a futile effort to bring about... It was rather vague, that past time in which she had striven and suffered... But she had hoped to do something... What was it she had done? It was something about Bonbright... What was it? It had been hard, and she had suffered. She tried to remember.... And then remembrance came. She had MARRIED him!

"He's good--so good," she said, tearfully. "I shouldn't have--done it ... I should have--trusted him... because I knew he was good--all the tune."

"Who was good?" asked Mrs. Moody.

"My husband," said Ruth.

"For the land sakes, WHAT'S HE got to do with this? Hain't you listenin' at all?"

"I'm listening... I'm listening. Don't stop."

Memory was becoming clearer, the fog was being blown away, and the past was showing in sharper outline. Events were emerging into distinctness.

She stared at the ceiling with widening eyes, listening to Mrs. Moody as the woman stumbled on; losing account of the reading as her mind wandered off into the past, searching, finding, identifying... She had been at peace. She had not suffered. She had lain in a lethargy which held away sharp sorrow and bitter thoughts. They were now working their way through to her, piercing her heart.

"Oh!..." she cried. "Oh!..."

"What ails you now? You're enough to drive a body wild. What you cryin'about? Say!"

"I--I love him... That's why I hid away--because I--loved him--and--and his father died. That was it. I remember now. I couldn't bear it..."

"Was it him or his father you was in love with?" asked Mrs. Moody, acidly.

"I--hated his father... But when he died I couldn't tell HIM--I loved him... He wouldn't have believed me."

"Say," said Mrs. Moody, suddenly awakening to the possibilities of Ruth's mood, "who was your husband, anyhow?"

Ruth shook her head. "I--can't tell you... You'd tell him... He mustn't find me--because I--couldn't bear it."

The mercenary came to the door. "Young woman at the door wants to see you," she said.

"Always somebody. Always trottin' up and down stairs. Seems like a body never gits a chance to rest her bones.... I'm comin'. Say I'll be right downstairs."

In the parlor Mrs. Moody found a young woman of a world with which boarding houses have little acquaintance. She glanced through the window, and saw beside the curb a big car with a liveried chauffeur. "I vum!" she said to herself.

"I'm Mrs. Moody, miss," she said. "What's wanted?"

"I'm looking for a friend... I'm just inquiring here because you're on my list of boarding houses. I guess I've asked at two hundred if I've asked at one."

"What's your friend's name? Man or woman?"

"Her name is Foote. Ruth Foote."

"No such person here... We got Richards and Brown and Judson, and a lot of 'em, but no Foote."

The young woman sighed. "I'm getting discouraged.... I am afraid she's ill somewhere. It's been months, and I can't find a trace. She's such a little thing, too.... Maybe she's changed her name. Quite likely."

"Is she hidin' away?" asked Mrs. Moody.

"Yes--you might say that. Not hiding because she DID anything, but because--her heart was broken."

"Um!... Little, was she? Sort of peaked and thin?"

"Yes."

"Ever hear the name of Frazer?"

"Why, Mrs. Moody--do you--That was her name before she was married ..."

"You come along with me," ordered Mrs. Moody, and led the way up the stairs. "Be sort of quietlike. She's sick..."

Mrs. Moody opened Ruth's door and pointed in. "Is it her?" she asked.

Hilda did not answer. She was across the room in an instant and on her knees beside the bed.

"Ruth!... Ruth!... how could you?..." she cried.

Ruth turned her head slowly and looked at Hilda. There was no light of gladness in her eyes; instead they were veiled with trouble. "Hilda..."

she said. "I didn't--want to be found. Go away and--and unfind me."

"You poor baby!... You poor, absurd, silly baby!" said Hilda, pa.s.sing her arm under Ruth's shoulders and drawing the wasted little body to her closely. "I've looked for you, and looked. You've no idea the trouble you've made for me... And now I'm going to take you home. I'm going to s.n.a.t.c.h you up and bundle you off."

"No," said Ruth, weakly. "n.o.body must know... HE--mustn't know."

"Fiddlesticks!" "Do you know?... He's done something--but it wasn't for me... I didn't have ANYTHING to do with it... Do you know what he's done?"