he said; and then at the
very last--'Ruth?'"

His voice went unsteady as he repeated it. Deane, nodding, was looking
straight down the street.

"Well," said Ted, after a minute, "I'm not going to have _that_ happen
again. I've been thinking about it. I did write Ruth a week ago. Now I
shall write to her before I go to bed tonight and tell her to come
home."

"You do that, Ted," said the doctor with gruff warmth. "You do that.
I'll write her too. Ruth wrote to me."

"Did she?" Ted quickly replied. "Well"--he hesitated, then threw out in
defiant manner and wistful voice, "well, I guess Ruth'll find she's got
one friend when she comes back to her old town."

"You bet she will," snapped Deane, adding in another voice: "She knows
that."

"And as for the family," Ted went on, "there are four of us, and I don't
know why Ruth and I aren't half of that four. Cy and Harriett haven't
got it all to say."

He said it so hotly that Deane conciliated: "Try not to have any split
up, Ted. That would just make it harder for Ruth, you know."

"There'll not be any split up if Cy will just act like a human being,"
said the boy darkly.

"Tell him your father was asking for Ruth and that I told you you must
send for her. See Harriett first and get her in line."

"Harriett would be all right," muttered Ted, "if let alone. Lots of
people would be all right if other people didn't keep nagging at them
about what they ought to be."

Deane gave him a quick, queer look. "You're right there, my son," he
laughed shortly.

There was a moment's intimate pause. There seemed not a sound on the
whole street save the subdued chug-chug of Deane's waiting machine. The
only light in the big house back in the shadowy yard was the dim light
that burned because a man was dying. Deane's hand went out to his
steering wheel. "Well, so long, Ted," he said in a voice curiously
gentle.

"'By, Deane," said the boy.

He drove on through the silent town in another mood. This boy's feeling
had touched something in his heart that was softening. He had always
been attracted to Ted Holland--his frank hazel eyes, something that
seemed so square and so pleasant in the clear, straight features of his
freckled face. He had been only a youngster of about thirteen when Ruth
went away. She had adored him; "my good-looking baby brother," was her
affectionate way of speaking of him. He was thinking what it would mean
to Ruth to come home and find this warmth in Ted