Ruth tried to consider, while her cheeks flushed, and her heart beat hard, in what way she could suggest to her father to manage his wife and daughter.
“Susan would listen to suggestions, I think,” she said, slowly. “But I don’t know whether”—
And then she broke off, and recurred to another of the endless trials of this time. If she and her father were to be compelled to hold conversations concerning this woman, it was absolutely necessary that they come to an understanding as to what to call her.
“Father,” she said, plunging desperately into the depths of the question. “What am I to call her? Does she—or, do you—desire that I should say mother?”
“No,” he said, quickly. “Surely not, unless”—
“Well, then,” Ruth said, after waiting in vain for him to conclude. “Am I to say ‘Mrs. Erskine?’”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
He spoke in visible agitation, and commenced a nerve-distracting walk up and down the room.
“I don’t know anything about any of this miserable business. Sometimes I am very sorely tempted to wish that I had left everything as it was, and gone on in my old life, and endured the results.”
“Don’t,” said Ruth, aghast at this evidence of desperate feeling, and roused, for a moment, from minor considerations into a higher plane. “Don’t feel in this way, father; we will do the best we can, and it will all come out right; at least, we will try to do what is right.”