e doorway. There was a peculiar, shining quality about her
expression.

"That was Bob," she said quietly.

"Bob?" I exclaimed.

"Bob Jennings?" ejaculated Will.

Ruth nodded and smiled. Standing there before us, dressed simply in the
plain black smock, cheeks flushed, eyes like stars, she reminded me of
some rare stone in a velvet case. The bareness of the room, with its
few genuine articles, set off the jewel-like brightness of my sister in
a startling fashion.

"You don't mean to say old Bob's turned up," commented Will.

"Tell us," bluntly I demanded, "what in the world is Robert Jennings
doing around here, Ruth?"

"Bob's been in town for several days," she replied. "He has just
telephoned that he is called back on business. His train leaves in a
little over an hour. He's dropping in here in ten minutes."

"Why, I didn't know you even wrote to each other," I said.

Ruth came over to the table and sat down in a low chair, stretching out
her folded hands arms-length along the table's surface, and leaning
toward us.

"I'm going to tell you two about it," she announced with finality. "I
wrote to Bob," she confessed, half proud, half apologetic. "I wrote to
Bob without any excuse at all, except that I wanted to tell him what I'd
found out. I wanted to tell him that I had discovered that this sort of
thing," she opened her hands, and made a little gesture that included
everything that those few small rooms of Oliver's epitomized, "that this
sort of thing," she resumed, "was what most women want more than
anything else in the world. Any other activity was simply preparation,
or courageous makeshift if this was denied. I made it easy for Bob, in
my letter, to answer me in the spirit of friendly argument if he chose,
but he didn't. He came on instead. We're going to be married," she said,
in a voice as casual as if she were announcing that they were going out
for dinner.

"You're going to be married?" I repeated.

"Yes," she nodded. "After all these years! Once," she went on in a
triumphant voice, "our fields of vision were so small that our
differences of opinion loomed up like insurmountable barriers. Now the
differences are mere specks on our broadened outlooks. Oh, I know," she
went on as if inspired, "I've been a long journey, simply to come back
to Bob again. But it hasn't been in vain. There was no short cut to the
perfect understanding that is Bob's and mine today."

"And when," timidly I inquired, "d