sked with a nod toward the sweating monster
that had just come to a standstill on the first track.

"It's the New York train," said Ruth.

"Well, I've brought some money," I went on quickly. "Fifty dollars. It
will last for a while. They don't know about it yet, back there at the
house. I shall have to tell them when I go back. I can't predict. Tom
may wire Malcolm to meet you and drag you back home. I don't know. But
I'll use all the influence I can against it. I'll do my very best,
Ruth."

Ruth's hand found mine in a sudden grasp and held it tightly. Another
train roared into the train-shed.

"Where shall you stay tonight?" I shrieked at her.

She gave the name of a well-known hotel reserved especially for women.
"I shall be all right," she called. "I'll drop you a line tomorrow. You
needn't worry about me. I'll let you know if I need anything."

A deep megaphoned voice announced the New York train.

"Your ticket?" I reminded.

"I have it. I was going anyway," she replied.

"Well, then," I said, and opened my bag and produced the two checks. She
took them. "Promise me, Ruth, promise _always_ to let me know--always if
you need anything, or are unhappy."

Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. Her under lip quavered. She broke
down at last. I held her in my arms.

"Oh, Lucy, Lucy," she cried. "You're so good to me. I miss him so. I
left the ring in the corner of your top drawer. You give it to Bob. I
can't. You're all I have. I've been so horrid to you all my life. I miss
Bob so. I hate Tom. I almost hate Tom. Oh, Lucy, what's to become of me?
Whatever is to become of me?"

The train gave a little jerk.

"All aboard, Miss," called a porter.

"Your train, Ruth dear," I said gently and actually pushed her a little
toward New York, which even now was beginning to appall me. She kissed
me good-by. I looked up and saw her floating away in a cloud of fitful
steam.

CHAPTER XVIII

A YEAR LATER

That was nearly a year ago. Until one day last week I have not seen Ruth
since, not because of the busy life of a young mother--for such I have
become since Ruth went away--no, though busy I have been, and proud and
happy and selfish, too, like every other mother of a first son in the
world, I suppose--but because Ruth hasn't wished to be seen. That is why
I have heard from her only through letters, why I direct my answers in
care of a certain woman's club with a request to forward them, and why I
have neit