“Give Miss Ruth my kindest regards,” he said in a low voice, still husky from the effects of the smoke and the strain of the last half-hour—­“and say how thankful I am for her gratitude, and—­No, —­don’t tell her anything of the kind.  I don’t know what you are to tell her.”  The words seemed to die in his throat.

“But she will ask me, and I have got to say something.  Come,—­out with it.”  Her eyes were still on his face; not a beat of his wings or a squirm of his body had she missed.

“Well just say how glad I am she is at home again and that her father is getting on so well, and tell her I will be up and around in a day or two, and that I am not a bit worse off for going to the station yesterday.”

“Anything else?”

“No,—­unless you can think of something.”

“And if I do shall I add it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,—­then I know exactly what to do,—­it will be something like this:  ’Please, Ruth, take care of your precious self, and don’t be worried about me or anything else, and remember that every minute I am away from you is misery, for I love you to distraction and—­ ’”

“Oh, Miss Felicia!”

“No—­none of your protests, sir!” she laughed.  “That is just what I am going to tell her.  And now don’t you dare to move till Peter comes back,” and with a toss of her aristocratic head the dear lady left the room, closing the door behind her.

And so our poor butterfly was left flat against the wall—­all his flights ended.  No more roaming over honeysuckles, drinking in the honey of Ruth’s talk; no more soaring up into the blue, the sunshine of hope dazzling his wings.  It made no difference what Miss Felicia might say to Ruth.  It was what she had said to him which made him realize the absurdity of all his hopes.  Everything that he had longed for, worked for, dreamed about, was over now—­ the long walks in the garden, her dear hand in his, even the song of the choir boys, and the burst of joyous music as they passed out of the church door only to enter their own for life.  All this was gone—­never to return—­never had existed, in fact, except in his own wild imagination.  And once more the disheartened boy turned his tired pain-racked face toward the bare wall.

Miss Felicia tripped downstairs with an untroubled air, extended two fingers to Mrs. Hicks, and without more ado passed out into the morning air.  No thought of the torment she had inflicted affected the dear woman.  What were pins made for except to curb the ambitious wings of flighty young men who were soaring higher than was good for them.  She would let him know that Ruth was a prize not to be too easily won, especially by penniless young gentlemen, however brave and heroic they might be.