"But turn about is fair play and you must call me 'Ruth.' Will you?
Oh, there's Babbie calling me.

Thank you again, for Charles' sake and my own.

Good morning--Jed." "Er--er--good mornin', Mrs.Armstrong." "What ?" "Er--I mean Mrs.Ruth." The most of that forenoon, that is the hour or so remaining, was spent by Mr.Winslow in sitting by the workbench and idly scratching upon a board with the point of the chisel.

Sometimes his scratches were meaningless, sometimes they spelled a name, a name which he seemed to enjoy spelling.

But at intervals during that day, and on other days which followed, he was conscious of an uneasy feeling, a feeling almost of guilt coupled with a dim foreboding.
Ruth Armstrong had called him a friend and loyal.