Ruth babbled on. She seemed to know a surprising lot about Uncle Jim. She had appropriated him along with the painted room and the playhouse. After lunch she took Bob by the hand and led him out to see it.
Emily hoped Martha saw the two of them walking down the path together. The sight some way made her think of Bob in the graveyard on Decoration Day—standing looking at the tombstone he had erected there for his beloved brother. In spite of Emily's protest he had engraved on it: "In memory also of his son James Kenworthy, 1903-1918—who died an unnecessary death, alone and unafraid."
Mrs. Benton, of course, had been in and seen Ruth. At once she had given orders to the guard that the child was to have special swimming lessons. And she was at the beach with her aunt, the fourth day of their visit, when Martha, having driven Emily about the town on some errands, turned the car towards the country.
"I want to tell you something, mammie!" she had said.
Emily was gratified that Martha cared to talk to her alone, for although she had been polite, always when Miss Curtis was there, she had been distant. Now she chose a road little traveled, and, settling down to drive slowly, she burst abruptly into intimacy.
"Mother, I want to tell you something! It's the most surprising thing you ever heard in your life! You won't believe it!"
"Of course I will."
"Well, guess who Ruth is! Guess, mammie!"
"Why? Isn't she Miss Curtis's brother's child?"
"She's Miss Curtis's own child. She's her mother, mammie!"