er the third day, burning them in stacks. As the
Penitent had said, in an earthquake one gets down to nakedness.
During those next ten days Ruth lived hourly face to face with her
kind, men and women, naked, bleeding, suffering.

She contrived too, all this while, to have the small motherless Hake
children near her, inventing a hundred errands to keep them busy.
Thus, to be sure, they saw many things too sad for their young eyes,
yet Ruth perceived that in feeling helpful they escaped the worst
broodings of bereavement, and, on the whole, watching them at times,
as their small hands were busy tearing up bandages or washing out
medicine bottles, she felt satisfied that their mother would have
wished it so.

Sir Oliver's arm healed well, and in general (it seemed) he was
making a rapid recovery. It was remarkable, though, that he seldom
smiled, and scarcely spoke at all save to answer a question.
He would rest for hours at a time staring straight in front of him,
much as he had lain and stared up at the ceiling of the fatal house.
Something weighed on his mind; or maybe the brain had received a
shock and must have time to recover. Ruth watched him anxiously,
keeping a cheerful face.

But there came an evening when, as she returned, tired but cheerful,
from the hospital, he called her to him.

"Ruth!"

"My lord." She was beside his couch in a moment.

"I have something to say to you; something I have wanted to say for
days. But I wanted also to think it all out. . . . I have not yet
asked you to forgive me--"

"Dear, you were forgiven long ago."

"--But I have asked Heaven to forgive me."

Ruth gave a little start and stared at him doubtfully.

"Yes," he went on, "as I lay pinned--those hours through, waiting for
death--something opened to me; a new life, I hope."

"And by a blessing I do not understand--by a blessing of blessings--
you were given back to it, Oliver."

"Back to it?" he repeated. "You do not understand me. The blessing
was God's special grace; the new life I speak of was a life
acknowledging that grace."

There was silence for many seconds; for a minute almost, Ruth's hands
had locked themselves together, and she pulled at the intertwisted
fingers.

"I beg your pardon," she said at length. "You are right--I do not
understand." Her voice had lost its ring; the sound of it was
leaden, spiritless. But he failed to note this, being preoccupied
with his own thoughts. Nor did he ob