But these thoughts did not occupy all of her time. She found opportunities to ride and sew and talk--the latter mostly with Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson. And she kept making her visits to Hagar Catherson. Of late Ruth had noticed a change in the girl's manner. She seemed to have lost the vivacity that had swept upon her with the coming of her new clothes; she had grown quiet and thoughtful, and had moods of intense abstraction. Ruth rode to the cabin one morning, to find her sitting on the edge of the porch, hugging Nig tightly and whispering to him. Her eyes were moist when Ruth rode up to the porch and looked down at her, but they filled with delight when they rested upon her visitor. She did not get up, though, and still held Nig, despite the dog's attempts to release himself. "Have you been crying, Hagar?" Ruth inquired as she dismounted and sat on the edge of the porch close to the girl. Hagar smiled wanly and rubbed her eyes vigorously with the back of her free hand, meanwhile looking sidelong at Ruth. "Why, I reckon not," she answered hesitatingly, "that is, not cryin' regular. But I was just tellin' Nig, here, that he's the only sure enough friend I've got--that can be depended on not to fool anybody." "Why, Hagar!" Ruth was astonished and perhaps a little hurt by this pessimistic view. "What an odd idea for you to have! Who has fooled you, Hagar?" "Nobody," said the girl almost sullenly. She dug her bare toe into the deep sand at the edge of the porch and looked down at the miniature hill she was making, her lips set queerly. Ruth had already noticed that she was dressed almost as she had been at their first meeting--a slipover apron that Ruth had given her being the only new garment. It was the lonesomeness, of course, Ruth reflected, and perhaps a vision of the dreary future, prospectless, hopeless, to be filled with the monotony of the past. Her arm stole out and was placed on Hagar's shoulder. "I haven't fooled you, Hagar," she said; "have I?" "No, ma'am." Her lips quivered. She glanced furtively at Ruth, and a half frightened, half dreading look came into her eyes. "Nobody's fooled me," she added with a nervous laugh. "I was just feelin' sorta dumpish, I reckon." "You mustn't brood, you know," consoled Ruth. "It ruins character." "What's character?" "Why--why," hesitated Ruth, "the thing that makes you yourself--apart from every other person; your reputation; the good that is in you--the good you feel." "I ain't got any," said the girl, morosely, grimly. "Why, Hagar, you have! Everybody has--either good or bad." "Mine's bad, I reckon--if I've got any." She suddenly buried her face on Ruth's shoulder and sobbed. Perplexed, astonished, almost dismayed, Ruth held her off and tried to look at her face. But the girl only buried it deeper and continued to cry. "Why, Hagar; whatever is the matter?"