Joyce took Gaston's chair. The contact seemed to strengthen her.
"Miss Drew—has—sent—this note." Ruth held it out helplessly.
"Thank you. I know what is in it; but I cannot come. I am going away." The proffered note fluttered to the floor.
"Going away?"
"Yes." The word was almost agonizing in its intensity. "Yes!"
"Please—Mrs. Lauzoon," Ruth Dale stammered the name; "please may I hear where you are going? My friends are so interested in you. I—I—am sorry for you. We could not bear to have you lonely and sad here—on Christmas—but if you are going away to be—happy, we will all be so glad."
"Please tell Mr. Drew," Joyce clutched the arms of the chair, and Ruth Dale continued to stare helplessly at the exquisite beauty of this mountain girl, "tell Mr. Drew—I am—going—to my husband."
"Your husband!"
"Yes; he will be so glad, Mr. Drew will. He has always been so—good. Tell him, please—and I think he will understand—that he made it possible for me—to do this—thing."
The human agony contained in these words carried all before it. Ruth Dale got up from her chair, and almost ran across the room to Joyce's side. She leaned over her and a wave of pity seemed to bear the two women along to a point where words—words from the heart—were possible.