im goodnight he suddenly knew how many lonely nights
there had been. "I'm so glad I've got you back, Ted," she said; "I want
to talk to you about heaps of things."

And Ted, as he went to bed, was thinking that there were heaps of things
he wanted to talk to Ruth about. He hadn't had much of anybody to talk
to about the things one does talk to one's own folks about. His father
had been silent and queer the last couple of years, and somehow one
wouldn't think of "talking" to Harriett. He and Ruth had always hit it
off, he told himself. He was glad she had found her feet, as he thought
of it; evidently talking with Deane had made her feel more at home.
Deane was a bully sort! After he had fallen into a light sleep he
awakened and there came all freshly the consciousness that Ruth was
back, asleep in her old room. It made him feel so good; he stretched out
and settled for sleep with satisfaction, drowsily thinking that there
_were_ heaps of things he wanted to talk to Ruth about.

Ruth, too, was settling to sleep with more calm, something nearer peace
than it had seemed just a little while before she was going to find in
her father's house. Talking with Deane took her in to something from
which she had long felt shut out. It was like coming on a camp fire
after being overawed by too long a time in the forest--warmth and light
and cheerful crackling after loneliness in austere places. Dear Deane!
he was always so good to her; he always helped. It was curious about
Deane--about Deane and her. There seemed a strange openness--she could
not think of it any other way--between them. Things she lived through,
in which he had no part, drew her to him, swung her back to him. There
was something between his spirit and hers that seemed to make him part
even of experiences she had had with another man, as if things of the
emotions, even though not shared, drew them together through the spirit.
Very deeply she hoped that Deane would be happy. She wished she might
meet his wife, but probably she wouldn't. She quickly turned from that
thought, wanting to stay by the camp fire. Anyway, Deane was her friend.
She rested in that thought of having a friend--someone to talk to about
things small and droll, about things large and mysterious. Thoughts
needed to be spoken. It opened something in one to speak them. With
Stuart she had been careful not to talk of certain things, fearing to
see him sink into that absorption, gloom, she had come to d