mother's bed that she was bidding her two little
daughters good-by. She couldn't take one of my hands because they were
both busy holding you; but she reached out and touched my shoulder; and
she told me always to love you and take care of you and be generous and
kind, because you were little and younger. And I said I would, and
carried you out very proud and happy.

That was a long while ago. I have never told you about it--we haven't
found it easy to talk seriously together--but I have always remembered.
I used to love to dress you when you were a baby, and feed you, and take
you out in the brown willow baby carriage like the real mothers. But, of
course, you had to outgrow the carriage; you had to outgrow the ugly
little dresses father and I used to select for you at the department
stores in Hilton; you had to outgrow the two little braids I used to
plait for you each morning when you were big enough to go to school; you
had to outgrow me, too. I am so plain and commonplace.

Yesterday when you put your arms about me there in the smoky train-shed
in Hilton, and cried a little as I held you close, with the great noisy
train that was to take you away snorting beside us, you became again to
me the little helpless sister that mother told me to take care of. All
the years between were blotted out. I remembered our mother's room, the
black walnut furniture. I saw the white pillows and mother's long, dark
braids lying over each of her shoulders. Again I heard her words; again
I felt the pride that swelled in my heart as I bore you away.

"I hope you are safe tonight. You can always call on me. I will always
come. Don't be afraid. And when you are unhappy, write to me. I shall
understand. You are not hard, you are not heartless. You are tender and
sensitive. Only your armor is made of flint. You are not changeable and
vacillating. They didn't know. You are brave and conscientious." With
some such words as these last did I write to Ruth before I slept that
night. I believed in her as I never had before. I cherished her with my
soul.

This is what had happened in Hilton. After Ruth had left the room the
afternoon of her inquisition, the rest of us had sat closeted in serious
consultation for two hours or more. It was after five when we emerged.

To Edith's inquiry as to Ruth's whereabouts, a maid explained that Miss
Ruth had left word that she was going to walk out to the Country Club,
and would return in time for supper