Resting her elbow on her knee, and her chin in the palm of her hand, she fell suddenly silent again, and sat gazing across the river.  Her blue eyes seemed to be wistfully seeking the secret of love among the rosy mists which the sunset had left beneath the shadowy trees.  She did not observe that the boy made no reply.  Her lovely head was intently bent to the other side, as if listening to hear some whisper from her own heart.  When she spoke, it was in a low, absent tone, as though she were whispering to herself, or thinking only half aloud.

“And what are the signs of true love?  That is the next thing.  What are the sure signs that true love may be known by, so that there can be no danger of making a mistake, no risk of taking one kind of love for another?  That is the question.  How do the signs of true love look?  How do they feel, I wonder?  Can it be one of the sure signs of true love to feel at the first sight of a face that it is the one you have most wanted to see all your life?  Can it be one of the sure signs of true love to have your heart leap at the first sound of a voice, so that you are glad to be alive—­glad—­glad as you never were before, although you have always been happy?  I wonder—­I wonder!  And can it be another of the sure signs of true love to feel utter content in one presence, to feel that, walled in with it forever away from all the rest of the world, there would be nothing left outside on the whole, wide earth to wish for?  Do you think so, David?  I wonder if it can be.  And then can it be yet another of true love’s sure signs to have a warm, sweet glow come around the heart, as it never did before, and to have something tell you that it will grow warmer and sweeter and brighter as long as you live?  I wonder—­wonder—­wonder.  And could it be the surest sign of all, that you don’t know why any of all these things are so; that you only know that everything some one is and says and thinks and does—­satisfies and delights your eyes and mind and heart and soul.”

Two heavy tears, like sudden drops from a summer shower, fell on her clasped hands, although her lips were smiling and she was still softly thinking aloud.

“And yet there is another kind of love—­quite, quite different from this—­and that, too, must be true.  A feeling that you have had ever since you could remember must be true, surely.  And you are always thinking about this one—­always arguing with yourself about how right and reasonable it is.  There isn’t any trouble in finding one the reasons for this love.  The only trouble about this kind of love is in your own unworthiness.  It’s somehow disheartening and tiring to be always looking up, higher than you can see, as though you stood all the time on your tiptoes.  And then when you are always feeling how unwise and childish you are, it is hard to love wisdom and dignity as they deserve to be loved.”

Saying this, Ruth turned suddenly upon David.  Her soft eyes were flashing through her tears.