re than two hours. She kept pouring out questions at
him every time he would stop for breath. She fairly palpitated with that
desire to hear little things--what Bob Horton did for a living, whether
Helen Matthews still gave music lessons. She hung tremulous upon his
words, laughing and often half crying as he told little stories about
quarrels and jokes--about churches and cooks. In his profession he had
many times seen a system craving a particular thing, but it seemed to
him he had never seen any need more pitifully great than this of hers
for laughing over the little drolleries of life. And then they sank into
deeper channels--he found himself telling her things he had not told
anyone: about his practice, about the men he was associated with, things
he had come to think.

And she talked to him of Stuart's health, of their efforts at making a
living--what she thought of dry farming, of heaters for apple orchards;
the cattle business, the character of Western people. She told him of
the mountains in winter--snow down to their feet; of Colorado air on a
winter's morning. And then of more personal, intimate things--how lonely
they had been, how much of a struggle they had found it. She talked of
the disadvantage Stuart was at because of his position, how he had grown
sensitive because of suspicion, because there were people who kept away
from him; how she herself had not made friends, afraid to because
several times after she had come to know the people around her they had
"heard," and drawn away. She told it all quite simply, just that she
wanted to let him know about their lives. He could see what it was
meaning to her to talk, that she had been too tight within and was
finding relief. "I try not to talk much to Stuart about things that
would make him feel bad," she said. "He gets despondent. It's been very
hard for Stuart, Deane. He misses his place among men."

She fell silent there, brooding over that--a touch of that tender,
passionate brooding he knew of old. And as he watched her he himself was
thinking, not of how hard it had been for Stuart, but of what it must
have been to Ruth. That hunger of hers for companionship told him more
than words could possibly have done of what her need had been. He
studied her as she sat there silent. She was the same old Ruth, but a
deepened Ruth; there was the same old sweetness, but new power. He had a
feeling that there was nothing in the world Ruth would not understand;
that