"Oh, don't! Don't do that! At least be frank. Why did you call me across the water? Just for the pleasure of doing this?" "Call you? Across the water?" There was touch of contempt in Cyrus's manner as he replied: "You don't even know what I mean?" "On my honor I do not!" "And you accuse me of not being truthful!" "Drowsy, listen. This may be our last meeting. Let us not part in this spirit--through any misunderstanding. Our friendship is too precious for that, isn't it? I beg you, tell me what you mean by my calling you. When? How? Do you mean a letter?" "I mean the message I received last night, and again early this morning. Through the air--by wireless as it were--in the old way, years ago, that I often got your messages." "But I have sent you no message." "Didn't you even think of me yesterday or this morning?" "No, I did not. I have thought of you often, and of our old childhood attachment, but not yesterday nor this morning, nor for several days." "Perhaps you remember," said Cyrus, speaking slowly, the slumbrous eyes looking earnestly down into Ruth's, "I used to get messages from you when we were far apart, even from your house to mine." "Indeed I do! And it was most mysterious--almost uncanny." "And they never deceived us?" "No, never;--as I remember them." "Well, it was the same sort of message I received last night. It came to me twice, and the meaning of the message was as clear as any spoken word. And to this spot it guided me." He turned and looked about the grounds, beyond the trees and garden, toward the cloisters and the chapel. "Who but you could call me here?" Ruth, also, looked toward the convent buildings. "Is it not possible your own brain may have played you a trick? Such things happen, you know." "My brain has not played such tricks. So far it has never deceived me. To be honest I was not thinking of you at the time. Father's death had been almost my only thought for weeks." "What more can I say, Drowsy? I am telling you the truth. And after all why should I call you? If you are the faithful soul you pretend to be, why didn't you write me months ago?" "How could I? I never had your address. And you promised--or almost promised--to let me have it. I waited, and waited, hoping for it--wondering in what way it was to come." She frowned: then, with a solemn movement of the head: "You did have it." "I did have it! How on earth could I get it?" "From Gertrude Page. I told her to mention a letter from me. Then, if you asked for my address, she would give it to you. But you didn't ask." Vehemently he protested. "On my honor, Ruth, this is the first I have heard of it. She never spoke of any letter. And why should she, poor thing? For nearly a year she has been in the asylum at Worcester." "You mean her--her mind is affected?" "Yes;--sort of a nervous breakdown. And her memory gone." "Oh, how dreadful!"