She had taken the low seat by his side, and now laid her head down on his knee.  He stroked her hair with an unsteady hand; sorely troubled and not knowing what to say.  He suddenly looked very old, and felt more helpless than ever before in his life.  Looking down on this beautiful head he realized in every sensitive fibre of his soul and body that this lovely young creature, clinging to his knee, was the one thing in the whole world that he had ever loved—­deeply, truly, purely, and unselfishly; that her gentle heart was the only heart out of all the hearts beating on the earth that had ever loved him as the innocent love the good.  Thinking of this he shrank and trembled, feeling that he held in his grasp a fragile treasure precious beyond all price, which a rude touch might destroy forever.  He knew the evil reputation which rumor had given him, and he had seen that Paul Colbert believed the worst.  There had been no disguise in the expression of the young doctor’s eyes.  His gaze bold and keen as an unhooded falcon’s, had frankly proclaimed his dislike and mistrust, making it only too plain that he asked no favor by pretending ignorance or on the score of any friendliness that he did not feel.  His look and attitude had indeed been so unmistakable that Philip Alston now wondered in sudden terror if she had not already observed them, and he—­who had feared nothing in all his life—­quailed and quivered before this sudden fear with abject cowardice.  In another moment he knew that her trust in him had not been shaken; the resting of her head on his knee told him so much.  But how long would it or could it stand against the doubts of the man she loved?  That was the question which went through Philip Alston’s breast like the thrust of a sword.  Her husband’s influence would be supreme.  A tender, gentle creature, she would be easily influenced through her affections.  The young doctor might keep silence, seeing her love for himself and respecting her regard for her foster-father; but he was not the man to hide what he really thought and felt, and she must divine the truth before long.  Philip Alston had no hope of changing Paul Colbert’s opinion of himself; he knew the world and mankind too well to think for a moment that any man might hope to live down such charges as those which had been brought against himself.  Ruth must know sooner or later, and, knowing, would she still love him?  There came now a sort of piteous appeal in the touch of his unsteady hand on her hair.  The slightest suspicion must blast the exquisite flower of her tender love.  With his quick, full appreciation of everything truly noble he had often noted the firm principles, which lay under her sweet gentleness like fine white marble under soft green moss.  He did not know that this very trait for which he had loved her, and which now made him afraid, had already been tested again and again; and that her love for him and trust in him, had stood against every attack as firmly as great rocks stand against shallow waves.  No, he knew nothing of all this, and he was now in such desperate fear that he dared not speak or move or do anything but stroke her hair with a shaking hand, and stare over her head at the fire trying to clear his mind.  She had been silent also, but presently she spoke, putting up her hand to pat the one that was stroking her hair.