Mrs. Moody approached the bed and felt of Ruth's hand. She had expected to find it hot. It was cold, bloodless. It gave the woman a start. She looked down at Ruth's face, from which the big eyes stared up at her without seeming to see her.
"You poor mite of a thing," said Mrs. Moody, softly. Then she seemed to jack herself up to a realization that softness would not do and that she could not allow such goings-on in her house. "You're sick, and if I'm a judge you're mighty sick," she said, sharply. "Who's goin' to look after you. Say?"
The tone stirred Ruth…. "Nobody…" she said, after a pause.
"I got to notify somebody," said Mrs. Moody. "Any relatives or friends?"
Ruth seemed to think it over as if the idea were hard to comprehend.
"Once I—had a—husband…" she said.
"But you hain't got him now, apparently. Have you got anybody?"
"… Husband…" said Ruth. "… husband…. But he—went away…. No, I—went away… because it was—too late then…. It was too late—THEN, wasn't it?" Her voice was pleading.
"You know more about it than me," said Mrs. Moody. "I want you should tell me somebody I can notify."
"I—loved him… and I didn't know it…. That was—queer—wasn't it?… He NEVER knew it…."