For these dainty white hands with their pink nails and soft palms, so wonderfully graceful over teapot or fan, could wield a broom or even a dust-pan did necessity require.  Ruth in a ball gown, all frills and ruffles and lace, was a sight to charm the eye of any man, but Ruth in calico and white apron, her beautiful hair piled on top of her still more beautiful head; her skirts pinned up and her dear little feet pattering about, was a sight not only for men but for gods as well.  Jack loved her in this costume, and so would you had you known her.  I myself, old and wrinkled as I am, have never forgotten how I rapped at the wrong door one morning—­the kitchen door—­and found her in that same costume, with her arms bare to the elbows and covered with flour, where she had been making a “sally lunn” for daddy.  Nor can I forget her ringing laugh as she saw the look of astonishment on my face, or my delight when she ordered me inside and made me open the oven door so that she could slide in the finished product without burning her fingers.

The packing up of their own household impedimenta complete, there came a few days of leisure—­the first breathing spell that either MacFarlane or Jack, or Ruth, too, for that matter, had had for weeks.  MacFarlane, in view of the coming winter—­a long and arduous one, took advantage of the interim and went south, to his club, for a few days’ shooting—­a rare luxury for him of late years.  Jack made up his mind to devote every one of his spare hours to getting better acquainted with Ruth, and that young woman, not wishing to be considered either neglectful or selfish, determined to sacrifice every hour of the day and as much of the night as was proper and possible to getting better acquainted with Jack; and the two had a royal time in the doing.

Jack, too, had another feeling about it all.  It seemed to him that he had a debt of gratitude—­the rasping word had long since lost its edge—­to discharge; and that he owed her every leisure hour he could steal from his work.  He had spent days and nights in the service of his friends, and had, besides, laid the burden of their anxieties upon her.  He would pay her in return twice as many days of gladness to make up for the pain she had so cheerfully borne.  What could he do to thank her?—­how discharge the obligation?  Every hour he would tell her, and in different ways—­by his tenderness, by his obedience to her slightest wish, anticipating her every want—­how much he appreciated her unselfishness, and how much better, if that were possible, he loved her for her sacrifice.  Nor was there, when the day came, any limit to his devotion or to her enjoyment.  There were rides over the hills in the soft September mornings—­Indian summer in its most dreamy and summery state; there were theatre parties of two and no more; when they sat in the third row in the balcony, where it was cheaper, and where, too, they wouldn’t have to speak to anybody else.  There were teas in Washington Square, where nobody but themselves and their hostess were present, as well as other unexpected outings, in which all the rest of the world was forgotten.