Mrs. Moody began again, impatiently. This time it was clearer to Ruth … Once she had tried to do something like this thing she was hearing about—and that was why she was here… It had something to do with her being sick… And with Bonbright… It was hard to remember.
"Even the floor sweepers git it," said Mrs. Moody, interpreting the news story. "Everybody gits five dollars a day at least, and some gits more."
"Everybody?…" said Ruth. "HE'S—giving it to—them?"
"This Mr. Foote is. Yes."
Suddenly Ruth began to cry, weakly, feebly. "I didn't help," she wailed, like an infant. Her voice was no stronger. "He did it alone—all alone… I wasn't there…"
"No, you was right here. Where would you be?"
"I wonder—if he did—it—for me?" Her voice was piteous, pleading.
"For you? What in goodness name have YOU got to do with it? He did it for all them men—thousands of 'em…. And jest think what it'll mean to 'em!… It'll be like heaven comin' to pass."
"What—have I—got to do—with it?" Ruth repeated, and then cried out with grief. "Nothing… Nothing…. NOTHING. If I'd never been born—he would have done it—just the same."
"To be sure," said Mrs. Moody, wondering. "I guess your head hain't jest right to-day."