her very well, and had seen her so often that
they no longer looked at her as plump brown partridges might look at an
exquisite bird of paradise. And then, they felt that Ruth was
unconscious of any difference between herself and them. There was a
sweet, cordial friendliness about her, an innate warm-hearted, magnetic
charm which won women as well as men. The hunters' daughters liked her
because they knew that she liked them for, after all, most of us get
what we give in our larger relation to humanity--seldom, if ever,
anything else, either more or less. Those who truly love their kind can
never be really hated: those who hate their kind can never be really
loved. The balance may waver one way or the other at times, but it
cannot fail to weigh truly at last.

Ruth danced first with David and then with one of the bashful young
hunters. But all the while she was looking toward the opening in the
undergrowth, expecting to see Paul Colbert. He had said that he would be
there, and presently she saw him standing in the opening between the
trees, with the shining river at his back. He was wearing his best and
Ruth thought with a leap of her heart, that she had not known till now
how handsome he was. His hair was fairer than she had thought, as fair
as hers was dark, and she liked it all the better for that. His eyes
were gray and clear and steady and fearless. He had a proud way, too, of
throwing up his head, as if he tossed away all petty thoughts. She saw
him do this as he crossed the greensward, coming straight to her side.
It pleased her that he did not stop for a single glance round. She felt
his unlikeness to another man, when she saw that he had no thought of
any eyes that might be upon himself. And because of this comparison, and
the pang of uneasiness and self-reproach which it brought, she blushed
when her eyes met his as she had not done heretofore.

There is little use in trying to put into words what he thought of her,
or what any true lover thinks of the beloved. The rose of the dawn, and
the breath of the zephyr were not glowing or delicate enough to portray
Ruth as she was to Paul that day. The beauty of her face under the gypsy
hat; the witchery of her dark blue eyes smiling up at him; the pink
roses blooming on her fair cheeks; the red rose of her perfect
mouth--all this gave him at a glance a likeness of her to lay away in
his memory: a vivid flashing, imperishable treasure to keep forever.

*