“My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Her situation was perplexing her very much, and the Widgett atmosphere was lax and sympathetic, and provocative of discussion. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. I got three pounds, and there’s three on my watch. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. ” She looked at him quizzically. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished.
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