uspended.
"_Living_ together--all this time--and _not_ married?"

"They are not married," was his heated response, "because the man's wife
has not divorced him." He added, not without satisfaction: "She's that
kind of a person."

Amy turned and her eyes met his. "What kind of a person?" she said
challengingly. "I presume," she added coolly, "that she does not believe
in divorce."

"I take it that she does not," was his dry answer.

She flushed, and exclaimed a little tremulously: "Well, really, Deane,
you needn't be so disagreeable about it!"

Quickly he turned to her, glad to think that he had been disagreeable;
that was so much easier than what he had been trying to keep from
thinking.

"I didn't mean to be disagreeable, Amy dear. I suppose I've got in the
habit of being disagreeable about Ruth: people here have been so hard
about her; I've resented their attitude so."

"But why should you _care_? Why is it such a personal matter to you?"

He was about to say, "She was my friend," but remembering he had said
that before, he had anew a sense of helplessness. He did not want to
talk about it any more. He had become tired out with thinking about it,
with the long grieving for Ruth and the sorrowing with her. When he
found Amy their love had seemed to free him from old hurts and to bring
him out from loneliness. Wonderful as the ecstasy of fresh love was he
had thought even more of the exquisite peace that rests in love. Amy had
seemed to be bringing him to that; and now it seemed that Ruth was still
there holding him away from it. The thought brushed his mind, his face
softening for the instant with it, that Ruth would be so sorry to have
that true.

Amy had braided her hair; the long fair braid hung over her shoulder,
beautifully framing her face as she turned to him. "Had you supposed,
when you all knew her, when she was in your crowd, that she was--that
kind of a person?"

His blood quickened in the old anger for Ruth; but there was something
worse than that--a sick feeling, a feeling in which there was
disappointment and into which there crept something that was like shame.

The telephone rang before he need reply. When he turned from it, it was
to say hurriedly, "I'll have to go to the hospital, Amy. Sorry--that
woman I operated on yesterday--" He was in the next room, gathering
together his things before he had finished it.

Amy followed him in. "Why, I'm so sorry, dear. It's too bad--when you're
so