oom, which was in
semi-darkness. He heard Rollo's stump beat a gentle tattoo on the
floor.

"Ruth?"

Silence for a moment. "Yes. What is it?"

"Is there anything I can do?" The idiocy of the question filled him
with the craving of laughter. Was there anything he could do!

"No, Hoddy; nothing."

"Would you like to have me come in and talk?" How tender that
sounded!--talk!

"If you want to."

Bamboo and bead tinkled and slithered behind him. The dusky
obscurity of the room was twice welcome. He did not want Ruth to
see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers,
ravaged by tears. He knew she had been weeping. He drew a chair to
the side of the bed and sat down, terrified by the utter fallowness
of his mind. Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any
stretch of silence would be dangerous. The fascination of the idea
of throwing himself upon his knees and crying out all that was in
his heart! As his eyes began to focus objects, he saw one of her
arms extended upon the counterpane, in his direction, the hand
clenched tightly.

"I am very wicked," she said. "After all, he is my father, Hoddy;
and I cursed him. But all those empty years!... My heart was hot.
I'm sorry. I do forgive him; but he will never know now."

"Write him," urged Spurlock, finding speech.

"He would return my letters unopened or destroy them."

That was true, thought Spurlock. No matter what happened, whether
the road smoothed out or became still rougher, he would always be
carrying this secret with him; and each time he recalled it, the
rack.

"Would you rather be alone?"

"No. It's kind of comforting to have you there. You understand. I
sha'n't cry any more. Tell me a story--with apple-blossoms in
it--about people who are happy."

Miserably his thoughts shuttled to and fro in search of what he
knew she wanted--a love story. Presently he began to weave a tale,
sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes.
How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. When
he reached the happy ending, he waited. But there was no sign from
her. By and by he gathered enough courage to lean toward her. She
had fallen asleep. The hand that had been clenched lay open,
relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket.

CHAPTER XXVI

Spurlock went out on his toes, careful lest the bamboo curtain
rattle behind him. He went into the study and sat down at his
table, but not to write. He