ving as she had been, had done nothing in the pruning way--that is,
nothing which would let in any sunshine radiating from Jack. She had
talked about him, it is true; not to her, we may be sure, but to her
father, saying how handsome he had grown and what a fine man he was
making of himself. She had, too, more than once commented--and this
before everybody--on his good manners and his breeding, especially on
the way he had received her the first morning she called, and to
his never apologizing for his miserable surroundings, meagre as they
were--just a theodolite, his father's portrait and half a dozen books
alone being visible, the white walls covered with working plans.
But when the poor girl had tried to draw from her some word that was
personal to himself, or one that might become personal--and she did
try even to the verge of betraying herself, which would never have
done--Miss Felicia had always turned the subject at once or had pleaded
forgetfulness. Not a word could she drag out of this very perverse and
determined old lady concerning the state of the patient, nothing except
that he was "better," or "doing nicely," or that the bandage was being
shortened, or some other commonplace. Uncle Peter had been kinder. He
understood--she saw that in his eyes. Still even Uncle Peter had not
told her all that she wanted to know, and of course she could not ask
him.

Soon a certain vague antagonism began to assert itself toward the old
lady who knew so much and yet who said so little! who was too old really
to understand--no old person, in fact, could understand--that is, no old
woman. This proved, too, that this particular person could never have
loved any other particular person in her life. Not that she, Ruth, loved
Jack--by no manner of means--not in that way, at least. But she would
have liked to know what he said, and how he said it, and whether his
eyes had lost that terrible look which they wore when he turned away
at the station to go back to his sick bed in the dingy hotel. All these
things her Aunt Felicia knew about and yet she could not drag a word out
of her.

What she ought to have done was to go herself that first night, bravely,
honestly, fearlessly as any friend had a right to do; go to him in his
miserable little hotel and try to cheer him up as Miss Felicia, and
perhaps Miss Bolton, had done. Then she might have found out all about
it. Exactly what it was that she wanted to find out all about--and this