Ruth had spent the Sunday in a desperate struggle with the Governor. Long and tenderly he had pleaded for a pledge that would bind her. He had been sure of the note of hesitation and uncertainty in her voice when she left Albany on the day of his inauguration.
He finally left her with the firm avowal:
"I am going to win, Ruth. You might as well make up your mind to it."
She smiled and said "Good-night."
When she went upstairs a low sob came from the nursery and she tipped into the room.
For the past year Lucy would often sit for an hour at a time in reverie, and then lift her little face to her mother with the question:
"Where is Papa?"
Since their return from the railway accident she had never asked again. She only sat now and looked into her mother's face with dumb pain.
Ruth soothed her to sleep, and was standing by her window trying to look out into the storm, which was lashing great sheets of wet snow against the glass.
