He assumed a feverish interest in the market reports, but his thoughts

were wandering. Certainly, nothing could have been worse. He felt as if

a bud, which he had been long and eagerly watching, was suddenly torn

open by a vandal hand. When he first touched Ruth's eyes with his finger

tips, he had trembled like a schoolboy, and he wondered if she knew it.

If she did, she made no sign. Her cheeks were flushed, the lids of her

downcast eyes were pink, and her voice had lost its crisp, incisive

tones, but she read rapidly, without comment or pause, until the supply

of news gave out. Then she began on the advertisements, dreading the

end of her task and vainly wishing for more papers, though in her heart

there was something sweet, which, even to herself, she dared not name.

"That'll do," he said, abruptly, "I'm not interested in the 'midsummer

glove clearing.' I meant to tell you something when I first came--I've

got to go away."

Ruth's heart throbbed painfully, as if some cold hand held it fast.

"Yes," she said, politely, not recognising her own voice.

"It's only for a week--I've got to go to the oculist and see about some

other things. I'll be back before long."

"I shall miss you," she said, conventionally. Then she saw that he was

going away to relieve her from the embarrassment of his presence, and

blessed him accordingly.

"When are you going?" she asked.

"This afternoon. I don't want to go, but it's just as well to have it

over with. Can I do anything for you in the city?"

"No, thank you. My wants are few and, at present, well supplied."

"Don't you want me to match something for you? I thought women always

had pieces of stuff that had to be matched immediately."

"They made you edit the funny column, didn't they?" she asked,

irrelevantly.

"They did, Miss Thorne, and, moreover, I expect I'll have to do it

again."

After a little, they were back on the old footing, yet everything was

different, for there was an obtruding self consciousness on either side.

"What time do you go?" she asked, with assumed indifference.

"Three-fifteen, I think, and it's after one now."

He walked back to the house with her, and, for the second time that day,

Hepsey came out to sweep the piazza.

"Good bye, Miss Thorne," he said.

"Good bye, Mr. Winfield."

That was all, but Ruth looked up with an unspoken question and his eyes

met hers clearly, with no turning aside. She knew he would come back

very soon and she understood his answer--that he had the right.

As she entered the house, Hepsey said, pleasantly: "Has he gone away,

Miss Thorne?"




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