Evered and John and Ruth drove home together in their light buggy, and Ruth sat on John’s knee. But there was no yielding in her, there was no softness about the girl. And no word was spoken by any one of them upon the way.
At home, alighting, she went forthwith into the house; and John put the horse up, while his father fed the pigs and the red bull in his stall. When they were done Ruth called them to dinner, appearing for an instant at the kitchen door. John reached the kitchen before his father; and the pain in him made him speak to the girl before Evered came.
“Ruthie,” he said softly. “Please don’t be too unhappy.”
She looked at him with steady eyes, a little sorrowful. “I’m not unhappy, John,” she said. “Because Mary is not unhappy, now. Don’t think about me.”
“I can’t help thinking about you,” he told her; and she knew what was behind his words, and shook her head.
“You’ll have to help it,” she said.
“Why, Ruthie,” he protested, “you know how I feel about you.”
Her eyes shone somberly. “It’s no good, John,” she answered. “You’re too much Evered. I can see clearer now.”
They had not, till then, marked Evered himself in the doorway. Ruth saw him and fell silent; and Evered asked her in a low steady voice, “You’re blaming me?”
“I’m cursing you,” said the girl.