These memories overwhelmed her. There was the old maple in whose shade she and Drowsy played keeping house. They pretended Zac was President of the United States who had dropped in for dinner. Only gingerbread and sour grapes were served and Drowsy gave her the biggest half of the gingerbread because she, also, was a guest. Zac, always loyal, ate one or two of the green grapes just because Cyrus did. And the stone wall that saved their lives;--at least, she thought so when Mr. Randall's horse came snorting toward them across the field, on the other side. He seemed close at their heels when Cyrus boosted her up and pushed her over before he climbed up himself. He pushed so hard--against that part of the body on which we sit--that she landed on her face, and the short, stiff blades of grass that had just been mowed, cut the inside of her nose. She tried to smile as she remembered, with a gulp, that although he was badly scared himself he was the last to climb over the wall. Yes, he always gave her first chance at everything--in peace or war! And there the well, where she and Susie Jordan had a quarrel one Sunday after Church, and Susie threw a dipperful of water on Ruth's head. It spoiled her new hat and she burst into tears. Then Cyrus walked up to Susie--Ruth could see him now as if it were yesterday--made one of his lowest bows, as if to apologize in advance, then slapped her hard on both cheeks. After slapping her he backed away a few steps and made yet another profound obeisance, as a judge, after performing a painful duty, might salute a prisoner of high degree. But now she was in too great haste to linger long over memories, or anything else. She hurried on to the house. Tearful, smiling, but on the very edge of sobs, she rang the door bell. Too impatient to wait she entered and walked into the sitting room. The same old sitting room, and changed but little since she saw it last. On the walls the same green paper, just a little more faded, perhaps, at certain places where the morning sun had loitered. Almost covering the center table were books, papers and magazines. Joanna entered. The greetings were cordial. Then, for a few moments they sat facing each other, Ruth in an arm chair, Joanna on the old sofa. In a casual way, Ruth remarked: "I suppose Cyrus is out in the old barn, hard at work on his new machine." "Not now. It is all finished." "Is it there now,--the machine?" "No, he went away in it." "When did he go?" "Last night." "Where has he gone?" "I don't know." Ruth leaned back in her chair and the color left her face. "Oh, Miss Ruth, are you ill?" "No, no! I am not ill. But didn't he say when he was coming back?" "He said he might not be back for some days. But he has often done that." Ruth suddenly jumped from her chair, began walking about the room, and exclaimed: "He's a contemptible thing!" "Not Cyrus?" "Yes, Cyrus. And what a fool! Oh, what a fool!"