"No; my father recovered from his wound, and so did the soldier who saved me, and as soon as my father was able to travel, he and I went down to the coast and came home." "That cannot be all," Ruth whispered; "there must be something more to tell, Mary." "I will tell you another time, Ruth," Mary said, in equally low tones, and then rising, put on her hat again, said good-bye, and went out. "Did you ever, Ruth?" Hesba Powlett exclaimed as the door closed. "I never did hear such a story in all my life. And to think of her shooting four men! It quite made my flesh creep; didn't it yours?" "There were other parts of the story that made my flesh creep a great deal more, mother." "Yes, it was terrible! And she didn't say a single word in praise of what the soldier had done for her. Now that seems to me downright ungrateful, and not at all what I should have thought of Miss Armstrong." "I suppose she thought, mother, that there was no occasion to express her opinion of his bravery or to mention her gratitude. The whole story seemed to me a cry of praise and a hymn of gratitude." "Lord, Ruth, what fancies you do take in your head, to be sure! I never did hear such expressions!" Two days passed without Ruth going up to the Armstrongs'; on the third day Mary again went down. "Well, Ruth, as you have not been to see me, I have come to see you again." "I was coming up this afternoon. If you don't mind, I will go back with you now, instead of your staying here. We are quieter there, you know. Somehow, one cannot think or talk when people come in and out of the room every two or three minutes." "I quite agree with you, Ruth, and, if you don't mind my saying so, I would very much rather have you all to myself." The two girls accordingly went back to the cottage. Mary, who was rather an industrious needlewoman, brought out a basket of work. Ruth, who for a long time had scarcely taken up a needle, sat with her hands before her. When two people intend to have a serious conversation with each other, they generally steer wide of the subject at first, and the present was no exception. "I think it would be better for you, Ruth, to occupy yourself with work a little, as I do." "I used to be fond of work," Ruth replied, "but I don't seem to be able to give my attention to it now. I begin, and before I have done twenty stitches, somehow or other my thoughts seem to go away, and by the end of the morning the first twenty stitches are all I have done." "But you oughtn't to think so much, Ruth. It is bad for any one to be always thinking." "Yes, but I can't help it. I have so much to think about, and it gets worse instead of better. Now, after what you said to me the other night, I don't know what to do. It seemed right before. I did not think I was doing much harm in keeping silence; now I see I have been, oh, so wrong!" and she twined her fingers in and out as if suffering bodily pain.