She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. It always comes out sooner or later. ” Mr.
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