ee Bob Bard in his flower-store; he would
without fail inquire after "our friend" or tell her of his having passed
that day. Here was her one chance of inquiring if he was looking well,
to which the answer was invariably "yes."

She sat one night at the opera in her wonted beauty, with her soft,
dusky hair rolled from her sweet Madonna face. Many a lorgnette was
raised a second and a third time toward her. Louis, seated next to her,
resented with unaccountable ferocity this free admiration that she did
not see or feel.

As the curtain went down on the first act, he drew her attention to
some celebrity then passing out. She raised her glass, but her hand fell
nerveless in her lap. Immediately following him came Dr. Kemp. Their
eyes met, and he bowed low, passing on immediately. The rest of the
evening passed like a nightmare; she heard nothing but her heart-throbs,
saw nothing but his beloved face regarding her with simple courtesy.
Louis knew that for her the opera was over; the tell-tale bistrous
shadows grew around her eyes, and she became deadly silent.

"What a magnificent man he is," murmured Mrs. Levice, "and what an
impressive bow he has!" Ruth did not hear her; but when she reached
her own room, she threw herself face downward on her bed in intolerable
anguish. She was not a girl who cried easily. If she had been, her
suffering would not have been so intense,--when the flood-gates are
opened, the river finds relief. Over and over again she wished she might
die and end this eager, passionate craving for some token of love from
him, or for the power of letting him know how it was with her. And it
would always be thus as long as she lived. She did not deceive herself;
no mere friendship would have sufficed,--all or nothing after what had
been.

Physically, however, she bore no traces of this continual restraint. On
the contrary, her slender figure matured to womanly proportions. Little
children, seeing her, smiled responsively at her, or clamored to be
taken into her arms, there was such a tender mother-look about her. By
degrees her friends began to feel the repose of her intellect and
the sympathy of her face, and came to regard her as the queen of
confidantes. Young girls with their continual love episodes and
excitements, ambitious youths with their whimsical schemes of life and
aspirations of love, sought her out openly. Few of these latter dared
hope for any individual thought from her, though any of the