A pig, yes, a little. He had done this a dozen times on the way from his office. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. He found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. She passed inside and upstairs without a word.
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