to be sure, had had other
babies and she had not known about it, but somehow to see Harriett, not
having known it, brought it home hard that she was not one of them any
more; she did not know when children were to be born; she did not know
what troubled or what pleased them; did not know how they managed the
affairs of living--who their neighbors were--their friends. She had not
known about Harriett; Harriett did not know about her--her longing for a
baby, longing which circumstances made her sternly deny herself.
Unmindful of the hurt of a moment before she now wanted to pour all that
out to Harriett, wanted to talk with her of those deep, common things.

The nurse had come in the room and was beginning some preparations for
the night. Harriett was moving toward the door. "Harriett," Ruth began
timidly, "won't you come in my room a little while and--talk?"

Harriett hesitated. They were near the top of the stairs and voices
could be heard below. "I guess not," she said nervously. "Not tonight,"
she added hurriedly; "that's Edgar down there. He's waiting for me."

"Then good night," said Ruth very quietly, and turned to her room.

All day long she had been trying to keep away from her room. "Thought
probably you'd like to have your old room, Ruth," Ted had said in taking
her to it. He had added, a little hurriedly, "Guess no one's had it
since you left."

It looked as if it was true enough no one had used it since she went out
of it that night eleven years before. The same things were there; the
bed was in the same position; so was her dressing table, and over by the
big window that opened to her side porch was the same little low chair
she always sat in to put on her shoes and stockings. It took her a long
way back; it made old things very strangely real. She sat down in her
little chair now and looked over at a picture of the Madonna Edith had
once given her on her birthday. She could hear people moving about
downstairs, hear voices. She had never in her whole life felt as alone.

And then she grew angry. Harriett had no right to treat her like that!
She had worked; she had suffered; she had done her best in meeting the
hard things of living. She had gone the way of women, met the things
women meet. Why, she had done her own washing! Harriett had no right to
treat her as if she were clear outside the common things of life.

She rose and went to the window and lowering it leaned out. She had
grown used to turning