"Do close my shutters for me. I'll sleep an hour or two." She hazily made out the figure in the doorway. "You're dressed, aren't you?" she inquired sleepily.
"Yes," replied Susan. "I've been waiting for you to wake."
Something in the tone made Ruth forget about sleep and rub her fingers over her eyes to clear them for a view of her cousin. Susan seemed about as usual—perhaps a little serious, but then she had the habit of strange moods of seriousness. "What did you want?" said Ruth.
Susan came into the room, sat at the foot of the bed—there was room, as the bed was long and Ruth short. "I want you to tell me what my mother did."
"Did?" echoed Ruth feebly.
"Did, to disgrace you and—me."
"Oh, I couldn't explain—not in a few words. I'm so sleepy. Don't bother about it, Susan." And she thrust her head deeper into the pillow. "Close the shutters."
"Then I'll have to ask Aunt Fanny—or Uncle George or everybody—till I find out."
"But you mustn't do that," protested Ruth, flinging herself from left to right impatiently. "What is it you want to know?"
"About my mother—and what she did. And why I have no father—why I'm not like you—and the other girls."