"Oh, I'll tell you, Deane," the boy burst out, "for a long time I
haven't felt just like the rest of the family have about Ruth. It was an
awful thing--I know that, but just the same it was pretty tough on
_Ruth_. I'll bet she's been up against it, good and plenty, and all
we've seemed to think about is the way it put us in bad. Not mother--Cy
never did really get mother, you know, but father would have softened if
it hadn't been for Cy's everlasting keeping him nagged up to the fact
that he'd been wronged! Even Harriett would have been human if it hadn't
been for Cy--and that upright husband she's got!"
The boy's face was flushed; he ran his hand back through his hair in an
agitated way; it was evident that his heart was hot with feeling about
it all. "I don't know whether you know, Deane," he said in a lowered
voice, "that mother's last words were for Ruth. They can't deny it, for
I was standing nearest her. 'Where's Ruth?' she 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. Why, it might make all
the difference in the world, he was gratefully considering.
When he came into the room where Amy was sleeping she awoke and sat up
in bed, rubbing sleepy eyes blinded by the light. "Poor dear," she
murmured at sight of his face, "so tired?"
He sat down on the bed; now that he was home, too tired to move. "Pretty
tired. Woman died."
"Oh, Deane!" she cried. "Deane, I'm _so_ sorry."
She reached over and put her arms around him. "You couldn't help it,
dear," she comforted. "You couldn't help it."
Her sympathy was very sweet to him; as said by her, the fact that he
couldn't help it did make some difference.
"And you had to be there such a long time. Why it must be most morning."
"Hardly that. I've been at the Hollands' too--talking to Ted. Poor
kid--it's lonesome for him."
"Who is he?" asked Amy.
"Why--" and then he remembered. "Why, Ruth Holland's brother," he said,
trying not to speak consciously. "The father's very sick, you know."
"Oh," said Amy. She moved over to the other side of her bed.
"They're going to send for Ruth."
Amy made no reply.
He was too utterly tired to think much about it--too worn for acute
sensibilities. He sat there yawning. "I really ought to write to Ruth
myself tonight," he said, sleepily thinking out loud, "but I'm too all
in." He wanted her to take the letter off his conscience for him. "I
think I'd better come to bed, don't you, honey?"
"I should think you would need rest," was her answer.
She had turned the other way and seemed to be going to sleep again.
Somehow he felt newly tired but was too exhausted to think it out. He
told himself that Amy had just roused for the minute and was too sleepy
to keep awake. People were that way when waked out of a sound sleep.