“And Ruth.”

“Huh! ...”  Lightener’s grunt seemed to say that it was nothing but what he expected.  “Well—­go ahead.”

Hilda went ahead.  Her father punctuated her story with sundry grunts, her mother with exclamations of astonishment and sorrow.  Hilda told the whole story from the beginning, and when she was done she said:  “There it is.  You wouldn’t believe it.  And, dad, Bonbright Foote’s an angel.  A regular angel with wings.”

“Sometimes it’s mighty hard to tell the difference between an angel and a damn fool,” said Lightener.  “I suppose you want me to mix into it.  Well, I won’t.”

“You haven’t been asked,” said Hilda.  “I’m doing the mixing for this family.  I just came to tell you I am going to stay all night with Ruth—­and to warn you not to mix in.  You’d do it with a sledge hammer.  I don’t suppose it’s any use telling you to keep your hands off—­for you won’t.  But I wish you would.”

“You’ll get your wish,” he said.

“I won’t,” she answered.

“Poor Bonbright,” Mrs. Lightener said, “it does seem as if about every misfortune had happened to him that can happen. ...  And he can’t go to his mother for sympathy.”

“He isn’t the kind to go to anybody for sympathy,” said Lightener.

“Then don’t you go to him with any,” said Hilda.

“I told you I wasn’t going to have anything to do with it.”

“I haven’t any patience with that girl,” said Mrs. Lightener.  “Such notions!  Wherever did she get them? ...  It’s all a result of this Votes for Women and clubs studying sociology and that.  When I was a girl—­”

“You wore hoop skirts, mammy,” said Hilda, “and if you weren’t careful when you sat down folks saw too much stocking. ...  Don’t go blaming Ruth too much.  She thought she was doing something tremendous.”

“I calc’late she was,” said Malcolm Lightener, “when you come to think of it. ...  Too bad all cranks can’t put the backbone they use in flub dub to some decent use.  I sort of admire ’em.”

“Father!” expostulated Mrs. Lightener.

“You’ve got to.  They back their game to the limit. ...  This little girl did. ...  Tough on Bonbright, though.”

Hilda walked to the door; there she stopped, and said over her shoulder:  “Tell you what I think.  I think she’s mighty hard in love with him—­and doesn’t know it.”

“Rats!” said her father, elegantly.

At that moment Bonbright was writing a letter to his wife.  It was a difficult letter, which he had started many times, but had been unable to begin as it should be begun. ...  He did not want to hurt her; he did not want her to misunderstand; so he had to be very clear, and write very carefully what was in his heart.  It was a sore heart, but, strangely, there was no bitterness in it toward Ruth.  He found that strange himself, and marveled at it.  He did not want to betray his misery to her—­for that would hurt her, he knew.  He did not want