ople had taken her to their hearts and had made of her a
wonderful new kind of saint. They had seen her come to them out of the
fire. They had heard of her silence at the trial of the man she loved.
They had seen her devoting herself with a careless fearlessness to
their loved ones in the time when the black diphtheria had frightened
the wits out of the best of women. All the while they knew that she
was not happy. And they had explained fully to the countryside just
what was their opinion of the whole matter.

Jeffrey, remembering these things, and suddenly understanding many
things that had been hidden from him, was very humble as he wondered
what he could say to Ruth.

At the outskirts of the little unpainted village he met Cynthe.

"Where is she?" he asked without preface.

Cynthe looked at him curiously, a long, searching look, and was amazed
at the change she saw.

Here was not the heady, thoughtless boy to whom she had talked the
other day. Here was a man, a thinking man, a man who had suffered and
had learned some things out of unknown places of his heart.

I hurt him, she thought. Maybe I said too much. But I am not sorry.
_Non._

"The last house," she answered, "by the crook of the lake there. She
will be glad," she remarked simply, and turned on her way.

Jeffrey rode on, thanking the little French girl heartily for the word
that she had thought to add. It was a warrant, it seemed, of
forgiveness--and of all things.

Old Robbideau Laclair and his crippled wife Philomena sat in the sun
by the side of the house watching Ruth, who with strong brown arms
bare above the elbow was working away contentedly in their little
patch of garden. They nudged each other as Jeffrey rode up and left
his horse, but they made no sign to Ruth.

So Jeffrey stepping lightly on the soft new earth came to her unseen
and unheard. He took the hoe from her hand as she turned to face
him. Up to that moment Jeffrey had not known what he was to say to
her. What was there to say? But as he looked into her startled,
pain-clouded eyes he found himself saying:

"I hurt God once, very much. I did not know what to say to Him. Last
night He taught me what to say. I hurt you, once, very much. Will you
tell me what to say to you, Ruth?"

It was a surprising, disconcerting greeting. But Ruth quickly
understood. There was no irreverence in it, only a man's stumbling,
wholehearted confession. It was a plea that she had no will to deny.