"Why, Mrs. Moody—do you—That was her name before she was married …"
"You come along with me," ordered Mrs. Moody, and led the way up the stairs. "Be sort of quietlike. She's sick…"
Mrs. Moody opened Ruth's door and pointed in. "Is it her?" she asked.
Hilda did not answer. She was across the room in an instant and on her knees beside the bed.
"Ruth!… Ruth!… how could you?…" she cried.
Ruth turned her head slowly and looked at Hilda. There was no light of gladness in her eyes; instead they were veiled with trouble. "Hilda…" she said. "I didn't—want to be found. Go away and—and unfind me."
"You poor baby!… You poor, absurd, silly baby!" said Hilda, passing her arm under Ruth's shoulders and drawing the wasted little body to her closely. "I've looked for you, and looked. You've no idea the trouble you've made for me… And now I'm going to take you home. I'm going to snatch you up and bundle you off."
"No," said Ruth, weakly. "Nobody must know… HE—mustn't know."
"Fiddlesticks!" "Do you know?… He's done something—but it wasn't for me… I didn't have ANYTHING to do with it… Do you know what he's done?"
"I know," said Hilda. "It was splendid. Dad's all worked up over it, but I think it is splendid just the same." "Splendid," said Ruth, slowly, thoughtfully—"splendid… Yes, that's it—SPLENDID." She seemed childishly pleased to discover the word, and repeated it again and again.