"It's time you knew the truth," said Ruth softly. Her eyes were half shut now and sparkling devilishly. "You haven't got any name. You haven't got any father. And no man of any position would marry you. As for Sam----" She laughed contemptuously. "Do you suppose Sam Wright would marry a girl without a name?" Susan had shrunk against the door jamb. She understood only dimly, but things understood dimly are worse than things that are clear. "Me?" she muttered. "Me? Oh, Ruth, you don't mean that." "It's true," said Ruth, calmly. "And the sooner you realize it the less likely you are to go the way your mother did." Susan stood as if petrified. "If Sam Wright comes hanging round you any more, you'll know how to treat him," Ruth went on. "You'll appreciate that he hasn't any respect for you--that he thinks you're someone to be trifled with. And if he talked engagement, it was only a pretense. Do you understand?" The girl leaning in the doorway gazed into vacancy. After a while she answered dully, "I guess so." Ruth began to fuss with the things on her bureau. Susan went into her room, sat on the edge of the bed. A few minutes, and Ruth, somewhat cooled down and not a little frightened, entered. She looked uneasily at the motionless figure. Finally she said, "Susie!" No answer. More sharply, "Susie!" "Yes," said Susan, without moving. "You understand that I told you for your own good? And you'll not say anything to mother or father? They feel terribly about it, and don't want it ever mentioned. You won't let on that you know?" "I'll not tell," said Susan. "You know we're fond of you--and want to do everything for you?" No answer. "It wasn't true--what you said about Sam's making love to you?" "That's all over. I don't want to talk about it." "You're not angry with me, Susie? I admit I was angry, but it was best for you to know--wasn't it?" "Yes," said Susan. "You're not angry with me?" "No." Ruth, still more uneasy, turned back into her own room because there was nothing else to do. She did not shut the door between. When she was in her nightgown she glanced in at her cousin. The girl was sitting on the edge of the bed in the same position. "It's after midnight," said Ruth. "You'd better get undressed." Susan moved a little. "I will," she said. Ruth went to bed and soon fell asleep. After an hour or so she awakened. Light was streaming through the open connecting door. She ran to it, looked in. Susan's clothes were in a heap beside the bed. Susan herself, with the pillows propping her, was staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. It was impossible for Ruth to realize any part of the effect upon her cousin of a thing she herself had known for years and had taken always as a matter of course; she simply felt mildly sorry for unfortunate Susan. "Susie, dear," she said gently, "do you want me to turn out the light?" "Yes," said Susan.