“How's this patient?” she asked, kissing him lightly on the forehead.
“I'm all right, dearest,” he answered, drawing her down beside him, “and I'm ashamed of myself because I was so foolish.”
During the afternoon Ruth made frequent trips to the house, each time finding Miss Ainslie sound asleep. It was after six o'clock when she woke and rubbed her eyes, wonderingly.
“How long have I been asleep, Ruth?”
“All the afternoon, Miss Ainslie—do you feel better now?”
“Yes, I think I do. I didn't sleep last night, but it's been years since I've taken a nap in the daytime.”
Ruth invited Carl to supper, and made them both sit still while she prepared the simple meal, which, as he said, was “astonishingly good.” He was quite himself again, but Miss Ainslie, though trying to assume her old manner, had undergone a great change.
Carl helped Ruth with the dishes, saying he supposed he might as well become accustomed to it, and, feeling the need of sleep, went home very early.
“I'm all right,” he said to Ruth, as he kissed her at the door, “and you're just the sweetest girl in the world. Good night, darling.”
A chill mist came inland, and Ruth kept pine knots burning in the fireplace. They sat without other light, Miss Ainslie with her head resting upon her hand, and Ruth watching her narrowly. Now and then they spoke aimlessly, of commonplaces.