concealed. She would show the other side of it! There was a
certain gloating in doing it--getting ahead of a thing that would trick
one. And then that spent itself as passion will and she grew quieter and
talked in a simple way of what loneliness meant, of what longing for
home meant, of what it meant to know one had hurt those who had always
been good to one, who loved and trusted. She spoke of her mother--of her
father, and then she broke down and cried and Mildred listened in
silence to those only half-smothered sobs.

When Ruth was able to stop she looked up, timidly, at Mildred. Something
seemed to have gone out of the girl--something youthful and superior,
something radiant and assured. She looked crumpled up. The utter misery
in her eyes, about her mouth, made Ruth whisper: "I'm sorry, Mildred."

Mildred looked at her with a bitter little laugh and then turned quickly
away.

Ruth had never felt more wretched in her life than when, without Mildred
having said a word, they turned in the gate leading up to Annie's. She
wanted to say something to comfort. She cast around for something.
"Maybe," she began, "that it will come right--anyway."

Again Mildred only laughed in that hard little way.

When they were half way up the hill Mildred spoke, as if, in miserable
uncertainty, thinking things aloud. "Mrs. Blair has asked me to go to
Europe with her for the summer," she said, in a voice that seemed to
have no spring left in it. "She's chaperoning a couple of girls. I could
go with them."

"Oh, _do_, Mildred!" cried Ruth. "Do that!" It seemed to her wonderfully
tender, wonderfully wise, of Edith. She was all eagerness to induce
Mildred to go with Edith.

But there was no answering enthusiasm. Mildred drooped. She did not look
at Ruth. "I could do that," she said in a lifeless way, as if it didn't
matter much what she did.

When they said good-by Mildred's broken smile made Ruth turn hastily
away. But she looked back after the girl had driven off, wanting to see
if she was sitting up in that sophisticated little way she had. But
Mildred was no longer sitting that way. She sagged, as if she did not
care anything about how she sat. Ruth stood looking after her, watching
as far as she could see her, longing to see her sit up, to see her hold
the whip again in that stiff, chic little fashion. But she did not do
it; her horse was going along as if he knew there was no interest in
him. Ruth could not bear it. If only t