She became aware that at regular intervals a light flashed upon her face and a bodiless eye regarded her, and this, as the night wore on, became a torment. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. .
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