"From Gertrude Page. I told her to mention a letter from me. Then, if you asked for my address, she would give it to you. But you didn't ask."
Vehemently he protested. "On my honor, Ruth, this is the first I have heard of it. She never spoke of any letter. And why should she, poor thing? For nearly a year she has been in the asylum at Worcester."
"You mean her—her mind is affected?"
"Yes;—sort of a nervous breakdown. And her memory gone."
"Oh, how dreadful!"
In the silence that followed, Ruth found the drowsy eyes looking deep into her own, as if reading her innermost thoughts. She recalled the singular power he had exercised as a boy—of seeing into other people's minds, apparently without effort, and answering questions before they were asked. At this present moment she had reasons for keeping her own thoughts to herself. She avoided his gaze, and looked away, over the water, toward the west. Too late, it seemed, for he said, quietly:
"It would have been fairer to me if you had sent it."
"Sent what?"
"The second letter, the one you wrote to somebody else."
Ruth's little figure stiffened. Color flew to her cheeks, and there were signs of anger as she faced him.