food for some time. But in the midst of his appreciation of the meal
he asked Ruth, suddenly:

"Wasn't there anything in that wallet when you gave it to that man,
Miss?"

"No," she replied, truthfully enough.

"No. He didn't say there was," muttered the boy, and said not
another word.

Ruth watched him eat. He did not raise his light eyes to her. The
color faded out of his cheeks. She knew that it was actual starvation
that kept him eating; but he was greatly troubled in his mind. She
went back to her own supper, and remained very quiet all through the
evening.

Later Aunt Alvirah made up the couch with plenty of blankets and
thick, downy "comforters," and when Ruth had gone to bed the boy came
out into the kitchen and left Uncle Jabez free to seek his own
repose. But though the whole house slept, Ruth could not--at first.
Long after it was still, and she knew Aunt Alvirah was asleep and
Uncle Jabez was snoring, Ruth arose, slipped on a warm wrapper and
her slippers, and squeezing something tightly between her fingers,
crept down the stairs to the kitchen door. She unlatched it softly
and let it swing open a couple of inches.

There was a stir within. She waited, holding her breath. She heard
the couch creak. Then came the sound of a shuffling step.