"Come!"
The door opened slowly and Ruth Dale entered.
She was all in white—a soft, long, trailing gown. Her hair had been loosened from the coronet, and fell in two shining braids over her shoulders. She looked very girlish as she came to the fire and dropped into a deep chair.
"Please put on more logs," she said softly. "Father Confessor, I've come to confess." There was something under the playfulness that touched Drew. "I told Connie that I wanted to talk to you about a plan of mine; well, so it is, but I want you to put the stamp of your sage approval upon it."
Drew shook his head.
"Hardly that," he said with a laugh, "but I'm willing to plot with you."
"I always think of you now," Ruth Dale continued, leaning toward the crackling logs, and holding her little benumbed hands open to the heat, "as 'the man who lives in his house by the side of the road, and is a friend to man'. Ralph, I need a friend! I must have one or I shall fail in that which I have set myself to do."
There was no lightness in the woman's manner now. She looked tragic; almost desperate.
Ralph Drew waited for her to go on. He was prepared to follow, but he could not lead.
Her youthfulness of appearance struck him now as it often had before; but the worn look in the eyes emphasized it to-night.