“Yes,—­tell me,” she pleaded.  She was too happy.  This was what she had been waiting for.  There was no detail he must omit.

“It was nothing, only I kept thinking it was you who were hurt,” he stammered.

“Me!” she cried, her eyes dancing.  The ray of light was breaking—­ one with a promise in it for the future!

“Yes,—­you, Miss Ruth!  Funny, isn’t it, how when you are half dead you get things mixed up.”  Oh, the stupidity of these lovers!  Not a thing had he seen of the flash of expectation in her eyes or of the hot color rising to her cheeks.  “I thought somebody was trying to tell your father that you were hurt, and I was fighting to keep him from hearing it.  But you must thank Bolton for letting you know.”

Ruth’s face clouded and the sparkle died out in her eyes.  What was Mr. Bolton to her, and at a time like this?

“It was most kind of Mr. Bolton,” she answered in a constrained voice.  “I only wish he had said something more; we had a terrible day.  Uncle Peter was nearly crazy about you; he telegraphed and telegraphed, but we could get no answer.  That’s why it was such a relief to find you at the station.”

But the bat had not finished banging his head against the wall.  “Then I did do some good by going?” he asked earnestly.

“Oh, indeed you did.”  If he did not care whether she had been hurt or not, even in his delirium, she was not going to betray herself.  “It was the first time anybody had seen Uncle Peter smile; he was wretched all day.  He loves you very dearly, Mr. Breen.”

Jack’s hand dropped so suddenly to his side that the pain made him tighten his lips.  For a moment he did not answer.

“Then it was only Uncle Peter who was anxious, was it?  I am glad he loves me.  I love him, too,” he said at last in a perfunctory tone—­“he’s been everything to me.”

“And you have been everything to him.”  She determined to change the subject now.  He told me only—­well,—­two days ago—­that you had made him ten years younger.”

“Me?—­Miss Ruth!” Still the same monotonous cadence.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Well,—­maybe because he is old and you are young.”  As she spoke her eyes measured the width of his shoulders and his broad chest—­ she saw now to what her father owed his life—­” and another thing; he said that he would always thank you for getting out alive.  And I owe you a debt of gratitude, too, Mr. Breen;—­you gave me back my dear daddy,” she added in a more assured tone.  Here at last was something she could talk unreservedly about.  Something that she had wanted to say ever since he came.

Jack straightened and threw back his shoulders:  that word again!  Was that all that Ruth had to say?

“No, Miss Ruth, you don’t.”  There was a slight ring of defiance now.  “You do not owe me anything, and please don’t think so, and please—­please—­do not say so!”

“I don’t owe you anything!  Not for saving my father’s life?” This came with genuine surprise.