"I don't know--I suppose it's my eyes. I'm horribly restless and
discontented, and it isn't my way."
Then Ruth remembered her own restless weeks, which seemed so long ago,
and her heart stirred with womanly sympathy. "I know," she said, in a
different tone, "I've felt the same way myself, almost ever since I've
been here, until this very afternoon. You're tired and nervous, and you
haven't anything to do, but you'll get over it."
"I hope you're right. I've been getting Joe to read the papers to me,
at a quarter a sitting, but his pronunciation is so unfamiliar that it's
hard to get the drift, and the whole thing exasperated me so that I had
to give it up."
"Let me read the papers to you," she said, impulsively, "I haven't seen
one for a month."
There was a long silence. "I don't want to impose upon you," he
answered--"no, you mustn't do it."
Ruth saw a stubborn pride that shrank from the slightest dependence, a
self-reliance that would not falter, but would steadfastly hold aloof,
and she knew that in one thing, at least, they were kindred.
"Let me," she cried, eagerly; "I'll give you my eyes for a little
while!"
Winfield caught her hand and held it for a moment, fully understanding.
Ruth's eyes looked up into his--deep, dark, dangerously appealing, and
alight with generous desire.
His fingers unclasped slowly. "Yes, I will," he said, strangely moved.
"It's a beautiful gift--in more ways than one. You are very kind--thank
you--good night!"