Breathless and wildly happy, Ruth Jessup almost flew along the shaded path which led from "The Rest" to her own humble dwelling. Now and then she would look up to a bird singing in the branches above her, and answer his music with a sweet, unconscious laugh. Again, her mouth would dimple at the sight of a tuft of blue violets, the flower she loved most of any. The very air she breathed was a delight to her, and the sunshine warmed her heart, as it penetrates the cup of a flower.

Up she came into her father's sick-room like a beam of morning light.

"I have seen him, father. I gave the letter into his own hands. He is not looking so very ill."

Jessup started to his elbow, eager and glad as the girl herself.

"Then he got it? He surely got it?"

"Oh, yes! I am very, very sure!"

"But how? How didst manage it, since he is not well enough to leave his room?"

"I went there!"

"You?"

"Yes, father; there was no other way, if I wished to put the paper into his own hand, as you bade me. So I went to his room."

"But, Sir Noel! Mrs. Mason! I marvel they let any one into his room so easily."

"Oh, they did not. I never dared to ask either of them," said Ruth, with a sweet, triumphant laugh, that sounded strangely in the lone sadness of the house. "I evaded them, and all the rest."

"But how?"

Ruth hesitated. The secret of the balcony stairs was too precious--she would keep it even from her father, as the angels guarded Jacob's ladder.

"Oh, I slipped in while Mr. Webb was away."

"Well! well! And he was not looking so very ill. He read my letter, and that brightened him up a bit, I'll be bound?" questioned the gardener.

"Not while I was there. I only had a minute. They were on the stairs, and there was no chance for a word."

"But he is getting better; you are sure of that?"

"Oh, yes. I feel quite sure, father."

"Well, I'm thankful for that. Mayhap he'll be able to come and see a poor fellow before long. Then we shall know more about it."

"About what, father?"

"Oh, nothing much! Only I'd give all the money I have been so long h.o.a.rding for the wedding-day only to be sure--"

"Then he is not to blame about anything?" broke in Ruth, throwing her arms around the sick man, and kissing him wildly, as if she did not quite know what she was about. "Oh, father! father! How could you ever think ill of him?"

"Child, child! What is all this ado about? Who said that I did think ill of the lad? Him as I have always loved next to my own child! Come, come, now! What have I said to make you so shaky and so fond?"

Ruth gave him another kiss for answer, and, seating herself on the bed, looked down upon him with a glow in her great velvety eyes that brought a smile to his lips.

"Anyway, the walk has brightened this face up wonderfully. Why, here is color once again, and the dimples are coming back like bees around a rose. Yes! yes! Kiss me, la.s.s! It does me good--it does me good!"

Ruth began to smooth the iron-gray hair on that rugged head, while the old man looked fondly upon her glowing face.

"Never mind. We shall be happy enough yet, little one," he said, smoothing her shapely hand with his broad palm. "Everything is sure to come out right, now that we understand one another."

Ruth drooped her head as the old man said this, and the bloom faded a little from her cheeks.

"Yes; oh, yes, father!" she faltered, drawing her hand away from his.

A look of the old trouble came into the deep, gray eyes, dwelling so fondly upon the girl; but before another word could be spoken, Ruth had left the bed, and lifting a vase full of withered flowers from the mantelpiece, flung them through the open window.

"See what a careless girl I have been, never to think how you love the roses, and they in full blossom, all this time. I never forgot you so long before. Now did I, father?"

"I never thought of them," answered the old man, shaking his head on the pillow. "My mind was too full of other things."

"But we must think of them now, or the house won't seem like home when you are strong enough to sit up," answered Ruth, with a reckless sort of cheerfulness. "Everything must be bright and blooming then. I will go now, and come back with the roses. They will seem like old friends; won't they, father dear?"

Ruth had reached the door with the vase in her hand when a knock sounded up from the porch.

The color left her face at the sound, and she nearly dropped the vase, so violent was the start she gave.

"I wonder who it is?" she said, casting a look of alarm back at her father, but speaking under her breath. "Has _he_ come to frighten away all my happiness?"

She went down-stairs reluctantly, and, with dread at her heart, opened the entrance door. A girl stood in the porch, carrying a basket on her arm, who entered the pa.s.sage without ceremony, and walked into the little parlor.

"The mistress sent me to inquire after your father, Miss Jessup," she said, taking a survey of the room, which was furnished better than most of its cla.s.s. "Besides that, I bring a jar of her best apricot jelly, with a bottle of port from the inn cellar, and her best compliments; things she don't send promiscuously by me, who only take them once in a while when it suits me, as it does now."

"You are very kind," said Ruth, with gentle reserve. "Pray thank Mrs.

Curtis for us."

"Of course, I'll thank her, but not till I've rested a bit in this pretty room. Why, it's like a grand picture, with a carpet and chairs fit for a gentleman's house; enough to make any girl lift her head above common people, as Mr. Storms says, when he goes about praising you."

"Mr. Storms!" faltered Ruth, shrinking from the name.

"Yes, Mr. Storms. It's only here and there one who thinks of calling him d.i.c.k; and they are uncommonly careful not to let him hear them; for he has a strong hand, slender and thin as he looks, has Storms.

But I needn't tell you anything about him."

"No. It's not necessary," replied Ruth, scarcely knowing what she said.

"Of course not. He comes here often enough to speak for himself, I dare say," persisted the girl, in whose great dark eyes a sinister light was gleaming.

"Not often."

Judith Hart's eyes sparkled.

"Scarcely at all," continued Ruth, "since my father was hurt."

"Is it his keeping away or the watching that makes you look so white in the face?" said Judith, taking off her bonnet, and revealing a ma.s.s of rich hair, which she pushed back from her temples.