floor against a table-leg. Behind the pillow appeared the book.
"Hello," he exclaimed, "what's this?" And he held it up.
I put out my hand. "I'll take it, thank you," I said.
"Whose is this, anyhow?" he asked, opening the book instead of passing it over to me. "Looks like Ruth's marks." Then after a pause, "Is it Ruth's?"
"I don't know. Perhaps."
"She shouldn't read stuff like this!" pronounced the young judge.
"Oh, Ruth has always read everything she wanted to."
"Yes, I suppose so—more's the pity—best-sellers, anything that's going. But this—this! It's not decent for her, for any girl. I don't believe in this modern idea of exposure, anyhow. But here she comes." His face lighted. He put aside the book. "Here Ruth comes!" And he went out into the hall to meet her.
I heard the front door open, the rustle of a greeting, and a moment later my sister and Robert Jennings both came in.
Ruth had become a shining roseate creature. Always beautiful, always exquisite—flawless features, perfect poise, now she pulsated with life. A new brightness glowed in her eyes. Of late across her cheeks color was wont to come and go like the shadow of clouds on a hillside on a windy day. Even her
