her sent down Will, nor appointed Malcolm to look her up and
find out how she was getting along.

Ruth has requested that I make no endeavor to drag her forth into the
light of criticism and comment. She has written every week punctually;
she has reported good health; and has invariably assured me that she is
congenially employed. I have allowed her her seclusion. In olden days
broken-hearted women and distracted men withdrew to the protection of
religion, and hid their scars inside the walls of nunneries and
monasteries. Why not let Ruth conceal her wounds, too, for a while,
without fear of disturbance from commenting friends and an inquisitive
family?

However, a fortnight ago, I had a letter from Ruth that set me to
planning. It casually referred to the fact that she was going to march
in the New York suffrage parade. I knew that she is still deeply
interested in suffrage. Any one of her letters bore witness to that. I
decided to see that parade. My son was six months old; I hadn't left him
for a night since he was born; he was a healthy little animal, gaining
ounces every week; and for all I knew the first little baby I had been
appointed to take care of was losing ounces. I made up my mind to go
down to New York and have a look at Ruth anyway. I told Will about it;
he fell in with my scheme; and I began to make arrangements.

When I announced to Robert Jennings that we were going to New York, I
tried to be casual about it.

"I haven't been down there for two years," I said one night when he
dropped in upon us, as was his occasional custom. "I require a polishing
in New York about every six months. Besides I want to begin disciplining
myself in leaving that little rascal of mine upstairs, just to prove
that he won't swallow a safety-pin or develop pneumonia the moment my
back's turned. Don't you think I'm wise?"

"New York?" took up Bob. "Shall you--do you plan to see anybody I know?"
he inquired.

He was a different man that falteringly asked me this question from the
Robert Jennings of a year ago--the same eyes, the same voice, the same
persistent smile, and yet something gone out from them all.

"No, Bob," I replied, "I'm not going to look up Ruth." We seldom spoke
of her. When we did it was briefly, and usually when Will happened to be
absent.

"There's a suffrage parade in New York, Wednesday," Robert informed me.
"While you're there, you know. Had you an idea that she might be in it?"

"Why, I shoul