ever sees anything but the obvious) assured me that, at least on
the surface, Ruth had not regretted her undertaking.

Will and I returned the first of September. Ruth's two months would
terminate on September tenth, and I had come back early in order to help
close Oliver's apartment and prepare for the distribution of the
children, which we had arranged in the early summer. Oliver was still in
Colorado when I returned. He was expected within a week, however. I
called Ruth up on the telephone as soon as I could, and told her I would
be over to see her the next day, or the day after. I couldn't say just
when, for Elise and Tom, who were returning to Wisconsin, were to spend
the following night with me. Perhaps after dinner we would all get into
the automobile and drop in upon her.

We all did. Oliver's apartment is on the other side of Boston from Will
and me. We didn't reach there until after eight o'clock. The children,
of course, were in bed. Ruth met us in the hall, half-way up the stairs.
She was paler than usual. As I saw her it flashed over me how blind we
had been to allow this girl--temperamental, exotic, sensitive to
surroundings--to plunge herself into the responsibilities that most
women acquire gradually. Her first real vacation in years too!

Elise and I kissed her.

"You look a little tired, Ruth," said Elise.

"A woman with children expects to look tired sometimes," Ruth replied,
with the sophistication of a mother of three. "I had to be up a few
nights with Becky."

I slipped my arm about Ruth as we mounted the stairs. "Has it been an
awful summer?" I whispered.

She didn't answer me--simply drew away. I felt my inquiry displeased
her. At the top of the landing she ran ahead and opened the door to the
apartment, inviting us in. I was unprepared for the sight that awaited
us.

"Why, Ruth!" I exclaimed, for I recognized all about me familiar bowl
and candlestick from Irving Place, old carved chest, Russian samovar,
embroidered strips of peasant's handicraft.

"How lovely!" said Elise, pushing by me into Oliver's living-room.

It really was. I gazed speechless. It made me think of the inside of a
peasant's cottage as sometimes prettily portrayed upon the stage. It was
very simple, almost bare, and yet there was a charm. At the windows hung
yellowish, unbleached cotton. On the sills were red geraniums in bloom.
A big clump of southern pine filled an old copper basin on a low tavern
table. A queer