change in her. The quick, light step was slow and heavy, the broad,
straight shoulders drooped a little, and her face, while still dimpled
and fair, was subtly different. Behind her deep, violet eyes lay an
unspeakable sadness and the rosy tints were gone. Her face was as pure
and cold as marble, with the peace of the dead laid upon it. She seemed
to have grown old in a single night.

All day she said little or nothing and would not eat. She simply sat
still, looking out of the east window. "No," she said, gently, to Ruth,
"nothing is the matter, deary, I'm just tired."

When Winfield came, she kept him away from Miss Ainslie without seeming
to do so. "Let's go for a walk," she said. She tried to speak lightly,
but there was a lump in her throat and a tightening at her heart.

They climbed the hill and took the side path which led to the woods,
following it down and through the aisles of trees, to the log across the
path. Ruth was troubled and sat there some little time without speaking,
then suddenly, she knew that something was wrong with Carl.

Her heart was filled with strange foreboding and she vainly tried to
swallow the persistent lump in her throat. She spoke to him, gently,
once or twice and he did not seem to hear. "Carl!" she cried in agony,
"Carl! What is it?"

He tried to shake off the spell which lay upon him. "Nothing, darling,"
he said unsteadily, with something of the old tenderness. "I'm weak--and
foolish--that's all."

"Carl! Dearest!" she cried, and then broke down, sobbing bitterly.

Her tears aroused him and he tried to soothe her. "Ruth, my darling
girl, don't cry. We have each other, sweetheart, and it doesn't
matter--nothing matters in the whole, wide world."

After a little, she regained her self-control.

"Come out into the sun," he said, "it's ghostly here. You don't seem
real to me, Ruth."

The mist filled her eyes again. "Don't, darling," he pleaded, "I'll try
to tell you."

They sat down on the hillside, where the sun shone brightly, and where
they could see Miss Ainslie's house plainly. She waited, frightened and
suffering, for what seemed an eternity, before he spoke.

"Last night, Ruth," he began, "my father came to me in a dream. You know
he died when I was about twelve years old, and last night I saw him as
he would have been if he had lived until now--something over sixty. His
hair and beard were matted and there was the most awful expression in
his eyes--it makes me s