two trembling hands were pulling at her handkerchief. Her eyes were
very bright. "And you aren't afraid of me?" she asked with a little
laugh that seemed trying to be mocking but was right on the edge of
tears.

He shook his head. "That is," he qualified it with a slight smile, "not
much--now." Then he said, as if dropping what they were talking about
and giving her a confidence: "While I was waiting for you I was so
scared that I wished I could drop dead."

His smile in saying it was so boyish that she too dropped the manner of
what they were talking about and faintly smiled back at him. It seemed
to help her gain possession of herself and she returned to the other
with a crisp, "And so, as I understand it, you thought you'd just drop
in and set everything right?"

He flushed and looked at her a little reproachfully. Then he said,
simply, "It seemed worth trying." He took a letter from his pocket. "I
got this from my sister this morning. The girl who has been working for
her has gone away. Her mother came and took her away. She had 'heard.'
They're always 'hearing.' This has happened time after time."

"Now just let me understand it," she began in that faintly mocking way,
though her voice was shaking. "You propose that I do something to make
the--the servant problem easier for your sister. Is that it? I am to do
something, you haven't yet said what, to facilitate the domestic
arrangements of the woman who is living with my husband. That's it,
isn't it?" she asked with seeming concern.

He reddened, but her scoffing seemed to give him courage, as if he had
something not to be scoffed at and could produce it. "It can be made to
sound ridiculous, can't it?" he concurred. "But--" he broke off and his
eyes went very serious. "You never knew Ruth very well, did you, Mrs.
Williams?" he asked quietly.

The flush spread over her face. "We were not intimate friends," was her
dry answer, but in that voice not steady.

He again colored, but that steady light was not driven from his eyes.
"Ruth's had a terrible time, Mrs. Williams," he said in a quiet voice of
strong feeling. "And if you had known her very well--knew just what it
is Ruth is like--it seems to me you would have to feel sorry for her."

She seemed about to speak again in that mocking way, but looking at his
face--the fine seriousness, the tender concern--she kept silence.

"And just what is it you propose that I do?" she asked after a moment,
as if trying