The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. For she needed him.
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