"He told me only--well,--two days ago--that you had made him ten years younger." "Me ?--Miss Ruth!" Still the same monotonous cadence.
"Yes." "How ?" "Well,--maybe because he is old and you are young." As she spoke her eyes measured the width of his shoulders and his broad chest--she saw now to what her father owed his life--"and another thing; he said that he would always thank you for getting out alive.

And I owe you a debt of gratitude, too, Mr.Breen;--you gave me back my dear daddy," she added in a more assured tone.

Here at last was something she could talk unreservedly about.

Something that she had wanted to say ever since he came.
Jack straightened and threw back his shoulders: that word again! Was that all that Ruth had to say?
"No, Miss Ruth, you don't." There was a slight ring of defiance now.

"You do not owe me anything, and please don't think so, and please--please--do not say so!" "I don't owe you anything! Not for saving my father's life ?" This came with genuine surprise.
"No! What would you have thought of me, what would I have thought of myself had I left him to suffocate when I could just as well have brought him out?
Do you think I could ever have looked you in the face again?
You might not have ever known I could have saved him--but I should have hated myself every hour of my life.