But her impulse was stayed and her thoughts sent wandering again by the penetrating look he gave her before she let her veil fall again.

“How long have you been in Detroit?” he asked.

“Ever since—­”

“And how old is Reuther?”

“Eighteen, but—­”

“Twelve years ago, then.”  He paused and glanced about him before adding, “She was about the age of the child you brought to my house today.”

“Yes, sir, very nearly.”

His lips took a strange twist.  There was self-contempt in it, and some other very peculiar and contradictory emotion.  But when this semblance of a smile had passed, it was no longer Oliver’s father she saw before her, but the county’s judge.  Even his tone partook of the change as he dryly remarked: 

“What you have told me concerning your daughter and my son is very interesting.  But it was not for the simple purpose of informing me that this untoward engagement was at an end that you came to Shelby.  You have another purpose.  What is it?  I can remain with you just five minutes longer.”

Five minutes!  It only takes one to kill a hope but five are far too few for the reconstruction of one.  But she gave no sign of her secret doubts, as she plunged at once into her subject.

“I will be brief,” said she; “as brief as any mother can be who is pleading for her daughter’s life as well as happiness.  Reuther has no real ailment, but her constitution is abnormally weak, and she will die of this grief if some miracle does not save her.  Strong as her will is, determined as she is to do her duty at all cost, she has very little physical stamina.  See! here is her photograph taken but a short time ago.  Look at it I beg.  See what she was like when life was full of hope; and then imagine her with all hope eliminated.”

“Excuse me.  What use?  I can do nothing.  I am very sorry for the child, but—­” His very attitude showed his disinclination to look at the picture.

But she would not be denied.  She thrust it upon him and once his eyes had fallen upon it, they clung there though evidently against his will.  Ah, she knew that Reuther’s exquisite countenance would plead for itself!  God seldom grants to such beauty, so lovely a spirit.  If the features themselves failed to appeal, certainly he must feel the charm of an expression which had already netted so many hearts.  Breathlessly she watched him, and, as she watched, she noted the heavy lines carved in his face by thought and possibly by sorrow, slowly relax and his eyes fill with a wistful tenderness.

In the egotism of her relief, she thought to deepen the impression she had made by one vivid picture of her daughter as she was now.  Mistaking his temperament or his story, classing him in with other strong men, the well of whose feeling once roused overflows in sympathetic emotion, she observed very gently but, as she soon saw, unwisely: