me the creeps."

"It's nothing serious--really it isn't," she explained. "It's merely a
safety valve. If women couldn't cry, they'd explode."

"I always supposed tears were signs of sorrow," he said.

"Far from it," laughed Ruth. "When I get very angry, I cry, and then I
got angrier because I'm crying and cry harder."

"That opens up a fearful possibility. What would happen if you kept
getting angrier because you were crying and crying harder because you
got angrier?"

"I have no idea," she answered, with her dark eyes fixed upon him, "but
it's a promising field for investigation."'

"I don't want to see the experiment."

"Don't worry," said Ruth, laconically, "you won't."

There was a long silence, and Winfield began to draw designs on the bare
earth with a twig. "Tell me about the lady who is considered crazy," he
suggested.

Ruth briefly described Miss Ainslie, dwelling lovingly upon her beauty
and charm. He listened indifferently at first, but when she told him
of the rugs, the real lace which edged the curtains, and the Cloisonne
vase, he became much interested.

"Take me to see her some day, won't you," he asked, carelessly.

Ruth's eyes met his squarely. "'T isn't a 'story,'" she said,
resentfully, forgetting her own temptation.

The dull colour flooded his face. "You forget, Miss Thorne, that I am
forbidden to read or write."

"For six months only," answered Ruth, sternly, "and there's always a
place for a good Sunday special."

He changed the subject, but there were frequent awkward pauses and the
spontaniety was gone. She rose, adjusting her belt in the back, and
announced that it was time for her to go home.

On their way up the hill, she tried to be gracious enough to atone
for her rudeness, but, though he was politeness itself, there was a
difference, and she felt as if she had lost something. Distance lay
between them--a cold, immeasurable distance, yet she knew that she had
done right.

He opened the gate for her, then turned to go. "Won't you come in?" she
asked, conventionally.

"No, thank you--some other time, if I may. I've had a charming
afternoon." He smiled pleasantly, and was off down the hill.

When she remembered that it was a Winfield who had married Abigail
Weatherby, she dismissed the matter as mere coincidence, and determined,
at all costs, to shield Miss Ainslie. The vision of that gracious lady
came to her, bringing with it a certain uplift of soul. Instantly, she
w