as it were in a dream, he beat of her
hands echoed in a soft tapping, the door behind his father opened
gently, and Dicky sat up with a start, wide awake again and staring, for
the girl herself stood in the doorway.

Chapter V.

RUTH.

"Hey, what is it?" the Collector demanded, slewing himself to the
half-about in his chair.

The girl stepped forward into the candle-light. Over her shoulders she
wore a faded plaid, the ends of which her left hand clutched and held
together at her bosom.

"Your Honour's pardon for troubling," she said, and laying a gold coin
on the table, drew back with a slight curtsy. "But I think you gave
me this by mistake; and now is my only chance to give it back.
I am going home in a few minutes."

The Collector glanced at the coin, and from that to the girl's face, on
which his eyes lingered.

"Gad, I recollect!" he said. "You were the wench that pulled off my
boots?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, upon my honour, I forget at this moment if I gave it by mistake
or because of your face. No, hang me!" he went on, while she flushed,
not angrily, but as though the words hurt her, "it must have been by
mistake. I couldn't have forgot so much better a reason."

To this she answered nothing, but put forward her hand as if to push the
coin nearer.

"Certainly not," said he, still with eyes on her face. "I wish you to
take it. By the way, I heard the landlady's voice just now, letting
loose upon somebody. Was it on you?"

"Yes."

"And you are going home to-night, you say. Has she turned you out?"

"Yes." The girl's hand moved as if gathering the plaid closer over her
bosom. Her voice held no resentment. Her eyes were fixed upon the
coin, which, however, she made no further motion to touch; and this
downward glance showed at its best the lovely droop of her long
eyelashes.

The Collector continued to take stock of her, and with a growing wonder.

The lower half of the face's oval was perhaps Unduly gaunt and a trifle
overweighted by the broad brow. The whole body stood a thought too high
for its breadth, with a hint of coltishness in the thin arms and thick
elbow-joints. So judged the Collector, as he would have appraised a
slave or any young female animal; while as a connoisseur he knew that
these were faults pointing towards ultimate perfection, and at this
stage even necessary to it.

For assurance he asked her, "How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"That's as I guessed