p it. After I get away I can write to you more about it. I can't
now. It will be terrible for you--for you all. Mother, it's been
terrible for me. Oh, try not to feel any worse than you can help.
People won't blame _you_. I wish I could help it. I wish--Can't
write more now. Write later. I'm so sorry--for everybody. So good
to me always. I love all--Ruth."

She put her head down on the desk and cried. Finally she got up and
blindly threw the note over on her bed; with difficulty, because of the
shaking of her hands, put on her gloves, picked up her bag. And then she
stood there for a moment before turning off the light; she saw her
little chair, her dressing-table. She reached up and turned off the
light and then for another moment stood there in the darkened room. She
listened to the branches of the oak tree tapping against the house. Then
she softly opened her bedroom door and carefully closed it behind her.
She could hear her father's breathing; then Ted's, as she passed his
door. On the stairs she stood still: she wanted to hear Ted's breathing
again. But she had already gone where she could not hear Ted's
breathing. Her hand on the door, she stood still. There was something so
unreal about this, so preposterous--not a thing that really happened,
that could happen to _her_. It seemed that in just a minute she would
wake up and find herself safe in her bed. But in another minute she was
leaning against the outside door of her home, crying. She seemed to have
left the Ruth Holland she knew behind when she finally walked down the
steps and around the corner where Deane was waiting for her.

They spoke scarcely a word until they saw the headlight of her train.
And then she drew back, clinging to him. "Ruth!" he whispered, holding
her, "don't!" But that seemed to make her know that she must; she
straightened, steeled herself, and moved toward the train. A moment
later she was on the platform, looking down at him. When she tried to
smile good-by, he whirled and walked blindly away.

She did not look from the window as long as the lights of the town were
to be seen. She sat there perfectly still, hands tight together, head
down. For two hours she scarcely moved. Such strange things shot through
her mind. Maybe her mother, thinking she was tired, would not go to her
room until almost noon. At least she would have her coffee first. Had
she remembered to put Edith's handkerchiefs in her bag? Had anyo