"You—Billy!" The glorious light died out of the big eyes, the pale, expectant face set into lines of hopeless disappointment. "I thought—" the mouth quivered pitifully, and Billy felt the added sting of discovered shame.
In a moment things steadied themselves, Joyce was mistress of the situation.
"What have you there?" she asked sharply. In the distraction she had not noticed that the chest was open.
"Her! Who?" Joyce came over to Billy, and looked at the face he held at arm's length.
Something numbed every sense but sight. That sense must convey the image of the girl-face to Joyce's brain, and implant it there so effectually that it could never be forgotten. And that very morning Joyce had seen its counterpart on the highway!
"Who—is—that?" she demanded.
"It's her up to the bungalow. They call her—Ruth. See! here it is writ on the back—'Ruth'; her other name is Mis' Dale."
The face was burned in now for all time; and the other faculties began to throb into life.
"Billy, where did you get that?"