"I dare say it is of no importance," said Ruth, taking it from her, while Mrs. Alwynn, repeatedly wondering how such a thing could have happened to a person so careful as herself, went off with her basket to the cook. When she returned in a few minutes she found Ruth standing by the window, the letter open in her hand, her face without a vestige of color. "Why, Ruth," she said, actually noticing the alteration in her appearance, "is your head bad again?" Ruth started violently. "Yes--no. I mean--I think I will go out. The fresh air--" She could not finish the sentence. "And that tiresome letter--did it want an answer?" "None," said Ruth, crushing it up unconsciously. "Well, now," said Mrs. Alwynn, "that's a good thing, for I'm sure I shall never forget the way your uncle was in once, when I put a letter of his in my pocket to give him (it was a plum-colored silk, Ruth, done with gold beads in front), and then I went into mourning for my poor dear Uncle James--such an out-of-the-common person he was, Ruth, and such a beautiful talker--and it was not till six months later--niece's mourning, you know--that I had the dress on again--and a business I had to meet it, for all my gowns seem to shrink when they are put by--and I put my hand in the pocket, and--" But Ruth had disappeared. Mrs. Alwynn was perfectly certain at last that something must be wrong with her niece. Earlier in the day she had had a headache. Reasoning by analogy, she decided that Ruth must have eaten something at Mrs. Thursby's dinner-party which had disagreed with her. If any one was ill, she always attributed it to indigestion. If Mr. Alwynn coughed, or if she read in the papers that royalty had been unavoidably prevented attending some function at which its presence had been expected, she instantly put down both mishaps to the same cause; and when Mrs. Alwynn had come to a conclusion it was not her habit to keep it to herself.