ld be a splendid thing to do.

With this in sight, her interference took on an appearance of dignified
philanthropy.

"Will you let me help you?" she asked wistfully; "be your friend? I have
money; I would love to do what I can. I have deep sympathy with you
and--I am very lonely and sad myself. I have recently lost my husband--I
have no one."

Joyce continued to hold her visitor with that solemn, intense glance.

"You loved your--husband--very much?" Ruth winced. She could hardly
resent the curiosity, but she stiffened.

"Of course. But if I had not, I should have been--lonely and sad. It is
a relationship that cannot be dissolved either by death or in any way
without causing pain and a deep sense of loss."

"Oh, yes, it can." Joyce spoke rapidly. "The loss may mean--life to you.
It may take fear away and a hideous loathing. It may let you be
yourself, the self that can breathe and learn to love goodness."

This outburst surprised and confused Ruth Dale. The expression of face,
voice and language swept away the sense of unreality and detachment.
Here was a vital trouble. A tangible human call. It might be that she,
instead of Ralph Drew or Constance, or any other person, might touch and
rescue this girl who was finding herself among the ruins of her life.

Ruth Dale was no common egotist, but her charm and magnetism had often
taken her close to others' needs, and she was eager, always, to answer
any demand made upon her.

"Joyce," she said softly, "please let me call you that. You see, by that
name I have always heard you called, and Constance Drew and I felt we
knew you before we saw you. I believe you have suffered horribly. All
women suffer in an unhappy marriage--but you suffered doubly because you
have always been capable of better things, perhaps, than you have ever
had. You do not mind my speaking very plainly?"

"No. I want you to."

"But you cannot find happiness--I know I am right about this--by taking
from life what does not really belong to you. Do you see what I mean?"

"No, but go on; I may see soon." The quiet face opposite made Ruth Dale
more and more uncomfortable. She had, for a moment, forgotten the
possibility of Gaston's return; the yellow gown was losing its
irritating power; she truly had a great and consuming desire to be of
service to this woman who was following her words with feverish
intensity, but she was ill at ease as she proceeded.

"If we have bungled our lives, made grav