“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?”
There was no answer, and after holding her for a time, Ruth succeeded in getting a look at her face. It was tear-stained, but dogged in expression, and had Ruth been experienced in reading the human emotions, she could have seen the guilt in the girl’s eyes, lurking far back. She also might have seen the determination in them—a determination not to tell her secret. And a sorrow, also, was there—aroused through the thought that she had deceived Ruth, and could not tell her.
Hagar realized now that she had permitted her emotions to carry her too far, that she had aroused Ruth’s curiosity. Ruth must never know! She made an effort and sat up, laughing grimly through her tears, shaking her hair back from her eyes, brushing it away fiercely.
“Dad says there’s times when I’m half loco,” she said. “I reckon he’s right.” She recovered her composure rapidly, and in a few minutes there were no traces of tears or of mental distress. But Ruth was puzzled, and after she left the cabin she tried in vain to provide an explanation for the girl’s strange conduct.
On her next visit to the cabin, Ruth was astonished when Hagar asked her bluntly: