clung to him as she saw the headlight of her train, then turned from him
to the car that was to carry her away from the whole world she knew. It
had seemed that the best of life was pulling away from him as he heard
her train pull out. He fairly ran away from the sound of it; not alone
because it was taking Ruth out of his own life, but because it was
bearing her to a country where the way would be too hard.

He knew that that way had been hard, that the years had not spared her;
and yet there had been a little shock when he saw Ruth that afternoon;
he knew now that his fears for her had rather given themselves a color
of romance. She looked worn, as if she had worked, and, just at first,
before she saw him, she looked older than it would seem that number of
years should make her.

But when she heard him and turned, coming to him with outstretched hand,
it was as it used to be--feeling illumining, transforming her. She was
the old flaming Ruth then, the years that lined her defied. Her eyes--it
was like a steady light shining through trembling waters. No one else
ever gave him that impression Ruth did of a certain deep steadiness
through changing feeling. He had thought he remembered just how
wonderful Ruth's eyes were--how feeling flamed in them and that steady
understanding looked through from her to him--that bridge between
separateness. But they were newly wonderful to him,--so live, so tender,
so potent.

She had been very quiet; thinking back to it, he pondered that. It
seemed not alone the quiet that comes with the acceptance of death, the
quiet that is the subduing effect of strange or moving circumstances,
but an inner quiet, a quiet of power. The years had taken something from
Ruth, but Ruth had won much from them. She was worn, a little dimmed,
but deepened. A tragedy queen she was not; he had a little smile for
himself for that subconscious romantic expectation that gave him, just
at the first, a little shock of disappointment when he saw Ruth. A
tragedy queen would hold herself more imposingly--and would have taken
better care of her hands. But that moment of a lighted way between Ruth
and him could let him afford to smile at disappointed romantic
expectation.

He had been there for only a few minutes, having the long trip out in
the country to make. Ruth and Ted seemed to be alone in the house. He
asked her if she had seen Harriett, and she answered, simply, "Not yet."

She had said, "You're married,