THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
become capable of forgiving wrongs, of bursts of real generosity and sacrifice. In face of such magnanimity as William had exhibited Ruth could be no less magnanimous herself.
The determination which stirred her heart was not based upon pride. Sometimes we are credited with lofty actions when in truth we are urged forward only by a sense of shame. But Ruth had found herself. No more self-lies, no more evasions; she stood free at last, on rock, the morass behind her. An obligation was no longer a thing to run around; she would meet each one as it came, honestly and squarely. And there was something in her heart this morning she did not quite understand.
She drew her kimono over her shoulders and walked boldly into William's room. He was not there. The bed had not been touched. It was a man's room, but it was the room of a man who took care of his belongings, who was orderly without being finical. Upon the chairs lay clothes neatly folded; just under the bed were several pairs of shoes, the heels in soldierly alignment. There was no litter at all except in one obscure corner where he had made a bundle of his working-clothes. She recalled what the nurse had told her about his going out in search of work, for fear they might not have money to pay the bills. Her imagination constructed a picture. She saw him laboring under the blistering decks, from early morn until sundown, and then watching half the night at her bedside. All for her! The walls and
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