isn't--not always. Not
this time."

"You ruffle like a protecting mother hen!" laughed Will. "Don't worry
that young head of yours too much, dear. It isn't _your_ love affair,
remember."

It _is_ my love affair. That's the difficulty. In all sorts of quiet and
covered ways have I tried to help and urge the friendship along. Always,
even before Ruth was engaged to Breckenridge Sewall, have I secretly
nursed the hope that Robert Jennings and my sister might discover each
other some day--each so beautiful to look upon, each so distinguished in
poise and speech and manner; Ruth so clever; Bob such a scholar; both of
them clean, young New Englanders, born under not dissimilar
circumstances, and both much beloved by me. It _is_ my love affair, and
it simply mustn't have quarrels.

I didn't refer to the book the next day, nor did I let Ruth know by look
or word that I noticed her silence at table or her preoccupied manner. I
made no observation upon Robert's failure to make his daily call the
next afternoon. She may have written and told him to stay away. I did
not know. In mute suspense I awaited the announcement of her decision.
It was made at last, sweetly, exquisitely, I thought.

On the second afternoon Robert called as usual. I was in the living-room
when he came in. When Ruth appeared in the doorway, I got up to go.

"No, please," she said. "Stay, Lucy, you were here before. Hello, Bob,"
she smiled, then very quietly she added, "I've made my decision."

"Ruth!" Robert began.

"Wait a minute, please," she said.

She went over to the secretary, opened the door and took down the book.
Then she crossed to the table, got a match, approached the fireplace,
leaned down, and set fire to my cherished selected birch-logs. She held
up the book then and smiled radiantly at Robert. "This is my decision!"
she said, and laid the book in the flames.

"Good heavens," I wanted to exclaim, "that's worth a dollar
thirty-five!"

"I've thought it all over," Ruth said simply, beautiful in the dignity
of her new-born self-abnegation. "A book is only paper and print, after
all. I was making a mountain out of it. It's as you wish, Bob. I won't
finish reading it."

We were very happy that night. Robert stayed to dinner. Will chanced to
be absent and there were only the three of us at table. There was a
mellow sort of stillness. A softness of voice possessed us all, even
when we asked for bread or salt. Our conversation was trivial,