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Updated: June 25, 2025
A quill pen, brand new, bright green and very gay, perched atop a fresh bottle of ink. Near-by appeared a small flat book showing an account between Esther Claff and Ruth Vars and an uptown bank. Inside, between roseate leaves of thin blotting paper, appeared a deposit to their credit of five hundred dollars. The tide of my fortune had changed. One good thing followed another.
Tied to the stem of one was an envelope, and inside the envelope was a card which bore the name of Breckenridge Sewall. "So that's who he is!" Miss Vars said out loud. I saw a great deal of the young millionaire during the remainder of the summer. Hardly a day passed but that I heard the approaching purr of his car.
Thus at Vars, a mountain hamlet up the torrent Rioubel, about nine miles from Guillestre, there is a little Christian community, which, though under the necessity of long concealing their faith, never ceased to be Vaudois in spirit.
Scot-Williams, whose horse I rode in the suffrage parade. Out of a sky already cleared of its darkest clouds there shot a shaft of light. I could see nothing at first but the brightness of Mrs. Scot-Williams' proposition. It blinded me to all else. I felt as if some enormous searchlight from heaven had selected poor, battered Ruth Chenery Vars for special illumination. Mrs.
She told me it was Ruth's place of business. It was an address up near the region of the Park, no name, just the bare street and number. I called 'information, and finally the house on the 'phone. I was informed Miss Vars would not be in until after dinner. So I waited, and about half-past eight went up there.
Sewall's library the inner holy of holies, upstairs over the drawing-room. Would you mind, Miss Vars? You're so swift and quiet with cups." Once she said, in explanation of her friendliness: "I've never had anything but a machine for a private secretary before. Miss Armstrong was hardly a companionable person. No sense of humor. But an excellent machine. Oh, yes excellent.
Miss "Who-ever-you-are" walked the three miles home slowly, smiling almost all the way. When she arrived, there was a huge box of flowers waiting on the hall-table directed to: "Miss Ruth Chenery Vars The Homestead, Hilton, Mass. License No. 668." Inside were two dozen American Beauty roses.
Everything that I can save is laid aside for the time when, finally admitted to the bar, I dare throw off the security of a salary. My mother is quite alone. I must always look out for her. I am all she has. I shall inherit little or nothing. If there is any one who has allowed a possible delusion to continue about himself it is I not you, Miss Vars.
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