“Oh!...” she cried.  “Oh!...”

“What ails you now?  You’re enough to drive a body wild.  What you cryin’about?  Say!”

“I—­I love him ...  That’s why I hid away—­because I—­loved him—­and—­ and his father died.  That was it.  I remember now.  I couldn’t bear it...”

“Was it him or his father you was in love with?” asked Mrs. Moody, acidly.

“I—­hated his father ...  But when he died I couldn’t tell him—­I loved him ...  He wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Say,” said Mrs. Moody, suddenly awakening to the possibilities of Ruth’s mood, “who was your husband, anyhow?”

Ruth shook her head.  “I—­can’t tell you ...  You’d tell him ...  He mustn’t find me—­because I—­couldn’t bear it.”

The mercenary came to the door.  “Young woman at the door wants to see you,” she said.

“Always somebody.  Always trottin’ up and down stairs.  Seems like a body never gits a chance to rest her bones. ...  I’m comin’.  Say I’ll be right downstairs.”

In the parlor Mrs. Moody found a young woman of a world with which boarding houses have little acquaintance.  She glanced through the window, and saw beside the curb a big car with a liveried chauffeur.  “I vum!” she said to herself.

“I’m Mrs. Moody, miss,” she said.  “What’s wanted?”

“I’m looking for a friend ...  I’m just inquiring here because you’re on my list of boarding houses.  I guess I’ve asked at two hundred if I’ve asked at one.”

“What’s your friend’s name?  Man or woman?”

“Her name is Foote.  Ruth Foote.”

“No such person here ...  We got Richards and Brown and Judson, and a lot of ’em, but no Foote.”

The young woman sighed.  “I’m getting discouraged. ...  I am afraid she’s ill somewhere.  It’s been months, and I can’t find a trace.  She’s such a little thing, too. ...  Maybe she’s changed her name.  Quite likely.”

“Is she hidin’ away?” asked Mrs. Moody.

“Yes—­you might say that.  Not hiding because she did anything, but because—­her heart was broken.”

“Um! ...  Little, was she?  Sort of peaked and thin?”

“Yes.”

“Ever hear the name of Frazer?”

“Why, Mrs. Moody—­do you—­That was her name before she was married ...”

“You come along with me,” ordered Mrs. Moody, and led the way up the stairs.  “Be sort of quietlike.  She’s sick ...”

Mrs. Moody opened Ruth’s door and pointed in.  “Is it her?” she asked.

Hilda did not answer.  She was across the room in an instant and on her knees beside the bed.

“Ruth! ...  Ruth! ... how could you?...” she cried.

Ruth turned her head slowly and looked at Hilda.  There was no light of gladness in her eyes; instead they were veiled with trouble.  “Hilda ...” she said.  “I didn’t—­want to be found.  Go away and—­and unfind me.”

“You poor baby! ...  You poor, absurd, silly baby!” said Hilda, passing her arm under Ruth’s shoulders and drawing the wasted little body to her closely.  “I’ve looked for you, and looked.  You’ve no idea the trouble you’ve made for me ...  And now I’m going to take you home.  I’m going to snatch you up and bundle you off.”