When the last letter was finished, and she saw her companion begin on his newspapers, she spoke again: "I don't think Ruth ought to go to that reception to-night; she is not well enough."
"Why, I thought it was nothing but a very slight cold," Chase said, turning round, surprised. "She mustn't think of going if she's sick. She wants to go; she telegraphed for that dress."
"Yes; last week. But that was before—before she felt ill. If she goes now, it will be only because you care for it."
"Oh, shucks! I care for it! What do I care for that sort of thing? I'll go and tell her to give the whole right up." He rose, leaving his newspapers on the floor (Chase always wanted his newspapers on the floor, and not on a table), and went towards the door. But, at the same instant, Ruth herself came in. "I was just going up to tell you, Ruthie, that I guess we won't turn out to-night after all—I mean to that show at the Barracks. I reckon they can manage without us?"
"Oh, but I want to see it," said Ruth. "If you are tired, I can go with Mrs. Kip."
"Well, who's running this family, anyway?" Chase demanded, going back to his seat, not ill-pleased, however, that Dolly should see that her information concerning her sister was less accurate than his own. But his care regarding everything that was connected with his wife made him add, "You'll give it up if I want you to, Ruthie?"
"You don't. It's Dolly!" Ruth declared. "Dolly-Dulcinea, I have changed my mind. I did not want to go this morning; I did not want to go this noon. But, at half-past five o'clock precisely, I knew that I must go or perish! Nothing shall keep me away." And, gayly waving her hand to her sister, she went into the music-room, which opened from the larger apartment, and, seating herself at the piano, began to play.
Chase returned to his reading; his only comment to Dolly was, "She seems to look pretty well." And it was true that Ruth looked not only well, but brilliant. After a while they heard her begin to sing:
| "My short and happy day is done; |
| The long and dreary night comes on; |
| And at my door the Pale Horse stands, |
| To carry me to unknown lands. |
| "His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof, |
| Sound dreadful as a gathering storm; |
| And I must leave this sheltering roof, |
| And joys of life so soft and warm." |
"Don't sing that!" called Dolly, sharply.