From the prison library I got some poems by a man called Browning. It’s queer, mixed-up stuff. I couldn’t make head or tail of some of it, but every once in a while he whangs out a verse that grades ’way up. Take this: “The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made; Our times are in His hand Who said: ‘A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God; see all, nor be afraid.’” Ever since I came here I had been thinking that myself, but I didn’t know how to say it like he does. Most poets spill a heap of language, looks like to me, but this fellow throws a straight rope. Our times are in His Hands! I’m banking a heap on that, honey. No need to fear—just trust and wait. Some day our waiting will be over. Dusk had fallen before Ruth rode down the trail to the ranch, her spirit still with Rowan up in the pines. Mrs. Stovall was on the porch speeding a parting guest, a dark-eyed, trim young woman of unobtrusive manners. “Mrs. McCoy, I want you should meet an old friend of mine—Mrs. Tait,” said the housekeeper by way of introduction. It was like a blow in the face to Ruth. She drew herself up straight and stiff. A flush of indignation swept into her face. With the slightest of bows she acknowledged the presentation, then marched into the house and to her bedroom. All the sweet gladness of the day was blotted out for her. Just as she and Rowan were coming together again the woman who had separated them must intrude herself as a hateful reminder of the past. She had forgiven her husband—yes; but her forgiveness did not extend to the woman who had led him into temptation. And even if she had pardoned him, she had not forgotten. It would be impossible ever quite to forget the sting of that memory with its sense of outrage at a wrong so flagrant. She did not deny that she was jealous. All of Rowan she could hold fast would not be too much to carry her through their years of separation. Except for this one deadening memory, she had nothing to recall but good of him. Why must this come up now to torment her? A knock sounded on the door. “Supper’s ready,” announced Mrs. Stovall tartly. “I don’t want any to-night.” After a moment’s silence Ruth heard retreating footsteps. A few minutes later there came a second knock. “I’ve brought you supper.” The housekeeper did not wait for an invitation, but opened the door and walked in. Never before had she done this. Ruth jumped to her feet from the chair where she was sitting in the dusk. “I told you I didn’t want any supper,” she said, annoyed.