"A woman?"--and then, at the note of astonishment in her own voice she laughed in an embarrassed little way.
"Yes, a Mrs. Herman. She says you may remember her as Annie Morris. She says she went to school with you."
"Yes," said Ruth, "I know." She was looking down, pulling at her handkerchief. After an instant she looked up and said quietly: "Won't you ask her to come in here?"
The woman who stood in the doorway a moment later gave the impression of life, work, having squeezed her too hard. She had quick movements, as if she were used to doing things in a hurry. She had on a cheap, plain suit, evidently bought several years before. She was very thin, her face almost pinched, but two very live eyes looked out from it. She appeared embarrassed, but somehow the embarrassment seemed only a surface thing. She held out a red, rough hand to Ruth and smiled in a quick, bright way as she said: "I don't know that you remember me, Ruth."
"Oh, yes I do, Annie," Ruth replied, and held on to the red, rough hand.
"I didn't know; I'm sure," she laughed, "that you've always meant more to me than I could to you."
After Ruth had introduced Harriett the stranger explained that with: "I thought a great deal of Ruth when we were in school together. She never knew it--she had so many friends." A little pause followed that.
"So I couldn't bear to go away," Annie went on in her rather sharp, bright way, "without seeing you, Ruth. I hope I'm not intruding, coming so--soon."
"You are not intruding, Annie," said Ruth; her voice shook just a little.
Ted had come home, and came in the room then and was introduced to Annie, with whom, though frankly surprised at seeing her, he shook hands warmly. "But we do know each other," he said.
"Oh, yes," she laughed, "I've brought you many a cauliflower."
Again there was a slight pause, and then Annie turned to Ruth with the manner of being bound to get right into the thing she had come to say. "I didn't wait longer, Ruth, because I was afraid you might get away and I wondered,"--this she said diffidently, as one perhaps expecting too much--"if there was any chance of your coming out to make me a little visit before you go back.
"You know,"--she turned hastily to Ted, turning away from the things gathering in Ruth's eyes, "the country is so lovely now. I thought it might do Ruth good. She must be tired, after the long journey--and all. I thought a good rest--" She turned back to Ruth. "Don't you think, Ruth," she coaxed, "that you'd like to come out and play with my baby?"