“Who—­who is it—­about?” she asked.

“Bonbright Foote, the manufacturer.  I read it out plain.”

“Yes ...  What is it? ...  I didn’t—­understand very well.  What did he —­do?”

Mrs. Moody began again, impatiently.  This time it was clearer to Ruth ...  Once she had tried to do something like this thing she was hearing about—­and that was why she was here ...  It had something to do with her being sick ...  And with Bonbright ...  It was hard to remember.

“Even the floor sweepers git it,” said Mrs. Moody, interpreting the news story.  “Everybody gits five dollars a day at least, and some gits more.”

“Everybody?...” said Ruth.  “He’s—­giving it to—­them?”

“This Mr. Foote is.  Yes.”

Suddenly Ruth began to cry, weakly, feebly.  “I didn’t help,” she wailed, like an infant.  Her voice was no stronger.  “He did it alone—­ all alone ...  I wasn’t there ...”

“No, you was right here.  Where would you be?”

“I wonder—­if he did—­it—­for me?” Her voice was piteous, pleading.

“For you?  What in goodness name have you got to do with it?  He did it for all them men—­thousands of ’em. ...  And jest think what it’ll mean to ’em! ...  It’ll be like heaven comin’ to pass.”

“What—­have I—­got to do—­with it?” Ruth repeated, and then cried out with grief.  “Nothing ...  Nothing. ...  Nothing.  If I’d never been born—­he would have done it—­just the same.”

“To be sure,” said Mrs. Moody, wondering.  “I guess your head hain’t jest right to-day.”

“Read ...  Please read ...  Every word.  Don’t miss a word.”

“Well, I swan!  You be int’rested.  I never see the like.”  And the good woman read on, not skipping a word.

Ruth followed as best she could, seeing dimly, but, seeing that the thing that was surpassed was the thing she had once sacrificed herself in a futile effort to bring about ...  It was rather vague, that past time in which she had striven and suffered ...  But she had hoped to do something ...  What was it she had done?  It was something about Bonbright ...  What was it?  It had been hard, and she had suffered.  She tried to remember. ...  And then remembrance came.  She had married him!

“He’s good—­so good,” she said, tearfully.  “I shouldn’t have—­done it ...  I should have—­trusted him ... because I knew he was good—­all the tune.”

“Who was good?” asked Mrs. Moody.

“My husband,” said Ruth.

“For the land sakes, what’s he got to do with this?  Hain’t you listenin’ at all?”

“I’m listening ...  I’m listening.  Don’t stop.”

Memory was becoming clearer, the fog was being blown away, and the past was showing in sharper outline.  Events were emerging into distinctness.  She stared at the ceiling with widening eyes, listening to Mrs. Moody as the woman stumbled on; losing account of the reading as her mind wandered off into the past, searching, finding, identifying ...  She had been at peace.  She had not suffered.  She had lain in a lethargy which held away sharp sorrow and bitter thoughts.  They were now working their way through to her, piercing her heart.