At first they gossiped about her, speculated about her, wove crude stories about her.  Some chose to think her exclusive, and endeavored to show her by their bearing that they thought themselves as good as she—­and maybe better.  They might have saved themselves their trouble, for she never noticed.  Lack of proper nourishment did its part.  Women seem prone to neglect their food.  The housewife, if her husband does not come home to the midday meal, contents herself with a snack, hastily picked up, and eaten without interest.  Ruth had no appetite.  She went to the table three times a day because a certain quantity of food was a necessity.  She did not eat at Mrs. Moody’s table, but “went out to her meals. ...”  She ate anywhere and everywhere.

Mrs. Moody alone had tried to approach Ruth.  Ruth had been courteous, but distant.  She wanted no prying into her affairs; no seekers after confidences; no discoverers of her identity.  For gossip spreads, and one does not know what spot it may reach. ...

“It hain’t healthy for her to set in her room all the time,” Mrs. Moody said to the mercenary who helped with the cooking.  “And it hain’t natural for a girl like her never to have comp’ny.  Since she’s been here there hain’t been a call at the door for her—­nor a letter.”

“I hain’t seen her but once or twict,” said the mercenary.  “If I was to meet her face to face on the street, I hain’t sure I’d know it was her.”

“She didn’t look good when she come, and she’s lookin’ worse every day.  First we know we’ll have her down on her back. ...  And then what?...  S’pose she was to be took sudden?  Who’d we notify?”

“The horspittle,” said the mercenary, callously.

“She’s sich a mite of a thing, with them big eyes lookin’ sorry all the while.  I feel sort of drawed to her.  But she won’t have no truck with me... nor nobody. ...  She hain’t never left nothin’ layin’ around her room that a body could git any idee about her from.  Secretive, I call it.”

“Maybe,” said the mercenary, “she’s got a past.”

“One thing’s certain, if she don’t look better ’fore she looks worse, she won’t have a long future.”

That seemed to be a true saying.  Ruth felt something of it.  It was harder for her to get up of mornings, more difficult to drag herself to work and hold up during the day.  Sometimes she skipped the evening meal now and went straight home to bed.  All she wanted was to rest, to lie down. ...  One day she fainted in the office. ...

Her burden was harder to support because it included not grief alone, but remorse, and if one excepts hatred, remorse is the most wearing of the emotions. ...  As she became weaker, less normal, it preyed on her.

Then, one morning, she fainted as she tried to get out of bed, and lay on the floor until consciousness returned.  She dragged herself back into bed and lay there, gazing dully up at the ceiling, suffering no pain... only so tired.  She did not speculate about it.  Somehow it did not interest her very much.  Even not going to work didn’t bother her—­she had reached that point.