“I can’t!  I can’t!” cried she, with a sharp pain in her voice.  “You must let me go, dear Mr. Davis!” said she, now speaking with soft entreaty.  “No!” said he, shaking his head authoritatively.  “I’ll do no such thing.”  “Listen!” said she, dropping her voice, and going all over the deepest scarlet; “he is Leonard’s father!  Now! you will let me go!” Mr. Davis was indeed staggered by what she said, and for a moment he did not speak.  So she went on—­ “You will not tell!  You must not tell!  No one knows, not even Mr. Benson, who it was.  And now—­it might do him so much harm to have it known.  You will not tell!”

“No!  I will not tell,” replied he.  “But, Mrs. Denbigh, you must answer me this one question, which I ask you in all true respect, but which I must ask, in order to guide both myself and you aright—­of course I knew Leonard was illegitimate—­in fact, I will give you secret for secret; it was being so myself that first made me sympathise with him, and desire to adopt him.  I knew that much of your history; but tell me, do you now care for this man?  Answer me truly—­do you love him?”

For a moment or two she did not speak; her head was bent down; then she raised it up, and looked with clear and honest eyes into his face.

“I have been thinking—­but I do not know—­I cannot tell—­I don’t think I should love him, if he were well and happy—­but you said he was ill—­and alone—­how can I help caring for him?  How can I help caring for him?” repeated she, covering her face with her hands, and the quick hot tears stealing through her fingers.

“He is Leonard’s father,” continued she, looking up at Mr. Davis suddenly.  “He need not know—­he shall not—­that I have ever been near him.  If he is like the others, he must be delirious—­I will leave him before he comes to himself—­but now let me go—­I must go.”

“I wish my tongue had been bitten out before I had named him to you.  He would do well enough without you; and, I dare say, if he recognises you, he will only be annoyed.”

“It is very likely,” said Ruth heavily.

“Annoyed—­why! he may curse you for your unasked-for care of him.  I have heard my poor mother—­and she was as pretty and delicate a creature as you are—­cursed for showing tenderness when it was not wanted.  Now, be persuaded by an old man like me, who has seen enough of life to make his heart ache—­leave this fine gentleman to his fate.  I’ll promise you to get him as good a nurse as can be had for money.”

“No!” said Ruth, with dull persistency—­as if she had not attended to his dissuasions; “I must go.  I will leave him before he recognises me.”

“Why, then,” said the old surgeon, “if you’re so bent upon it, I suppose I must let you.  It is but what my mother would have done—­poor, heart-broken thing!  However, come along, and let us make the best of it.  It saves me a deal of trouble, I know; for, if I have you for a right hand, I need not worry myself continually with wondering how he is taken care of.  Go get your bonnet, you tender-hearted fool of a woman!  Let us get you out of the house without any more scenes or explanations; I’ll make all straight with the Bensons.”