“You do help me,” she murmured softly.  Her eyes had now dropped to the cushion at her side.

“Yes, but not—­Oh, Ruth, don’t you see how I love you!  What difference does this accident make—­what difference does anything make if we have each other?” He had his hand on hers now, and was bending over, his eyes eager for some answer in her own.  “I have suffered so,” he went on, “and I am so tired and so lonely without you.  When you wouldn’t understand me that time when I came to you after the tunnel blew up, I went about like one in a dream—­and then I determined to forget it all, and you, and everything—­but I couldn’t, and I can’t now.  Maybe you won’t listen—­but please—­”

Ruth withdrew her hand quickly and straightened her shoulders.  The mention of the tunnel and what followed had brought with it a rush of memories that had caused her the bitterest tears of her life.  And then again what did he mean by “helping”?

“Jack,” she said slowly, as if every word gave her pain, “listen to me.  When you saved my father’s life and I wanted to tell you how much I thanked you for it, you would not let me tell you.  Is not that true?”

“I did not want your gratitude, Ruth,” he pleaded in excuse, his lips quivering, “I wanted your love.”

“And why, then, should I not say to you now that I do not want your pity?  Is it because you are—­” her voice sank to a whisper, every note told of her suffering—­“you are—­sorry for me, Jack, that you tell me you love me?”

Jack sprang to his feet and stood looking down upon her.  The cruelty of her injustice smote his heart.  Had a man’s glove been dashed in his face he could not have been more incensed.  For a brief moment there surged through him all he had suffered for her sake; the sleepless nights, the days of doubts and misunderstandings!  And it had come to this!  Again he was treated with contempt—­again his heart and all it held was trampled on.  A wild protest rose in his throat and trembled on his lips.

At that instant she raised her eyes and looked into his.  A look so pleading—­so patient—­so weary of the struggle—­so ready to receive the blow—­that the hot words recoiled in his throat.  He bent his head to search her eyes the better.  Down in their depths, as one sees the bottom of a clear pool he read the truth, and with it came a reaction that sent the hot blood rushing through his veins.

“Sorry for you, my darling!” he burst out joyously—­“I who love you like my own soul!  Oh, Ruth!—­Ruth!—­my beloved!”

He had her in his arms now, her cheek to his, her yielding body held close.

Then their lips met.

The Scribe lays down his pen.  This be holy ground on which we tread.  All she has she has given him:  all the fantasies of her childhood, all the dreams of her girlhood, all her trust, her loyalty—­her reverence—­all to the very last pulsation of her being.