“And will you come and dance again, at my wedding, Cousin Ruth?”

She nearly let the bottle fall, the last of which she was sloping carefully into a vessel of bright glass; and then she raised her hand again, and finished it judiciously.  And after that, she took the window, to see that all her work was clear; and then she poured me out a glass and said, with very pale cheeks, but else no sign of meaning about her, “What did you ask me, Cousin Ridd?”

“Nothing of any importance, Ruth; only we are so fond of you.  I mean to be married as soon as I can.  Will you come and help us?”

“To be sure I will, Cousin Ridd—­unless, unless, dear grandfather cannot spare me from the business.”  She went away; and her breast was heaving, like a rick of under-carried hay.  And she stood at the window long, trying to make yawns of sighs.

For my part, I knew not what to do.  And yet I could think about it, as I never could with Lorna; with whom I was always in a whirl, from the power of my love.  So I thought some time about it; and perceived that it was the manliest way, just to tell her everything; except that I feared she liked me.  But it seemed to me unaccountable that she did not even ask the name of my intended wife.  Perhaps she thought that it must be Sally; or perhaps she feared to trust her voice.

“Come and sit by me, dear Ruth; and listen to a long, long story, how things have come about with me.”

“No, thank you, Cousin Ridd,” she answered; “at least I mean that I shall be happy—­that I shall be ready to hear you—­to listen to you, I mean of course.  But I would rather stay where I am, and have the air—­or rather be able to watch for dear grandfather coming home.  He is so kind and good to me.  What should I do without him?”

Then I told her how, for years and years, I had been attached to Lorna, and all the dangers and difficulties which had so long beset us, and how I hoped that these were passing, and no other might come between us, except on the score of religion; upon which point I trusted soon to overcome my mother’s objections.  And then I told her how poor, and helpless, and alone in the world, my Lorna was; and how sad all her youth had been, until I brought her away at last.  And many other little things I mentioned, which there is no need for me again to dwell upon.  Ruth heard it all without a word, and without once looking at me; and only by her attitude could I guess that she was weeping.  Then when all my tale was told, she asked in a low and gentle voice, but still without showing her face to me,—­

“And does she love you, Cousin Ridd?  Does she say that she loves you with—­with all her heart?”

“Certainly, she does,” I answered.  “Do you think it impossible for one like her to do so?”

She said no more; but crossed the room before I had time to look at her, and came behind my chair, and kissed me gently on the forehead.