e contact? Do
not say you can, for I know you cannot.' She was crying so violently
that she would not listen to me. When I left her, I myself could think
of none of my young friends to whom I could propound the question. I
know many sweet, kind girls, but I could count not one among them all
who in such a case would be brave as she was womanly--until I thought of
you."

Complete silence followed his words. He did not turn his glance from the
street ahead of him. He had made no appeal, would make none, in fact. He
had told the story with scarcely a reflection on its impropriety, that
would have arrested another man from introducing such an element into
his gentle fellowship with a girl like Ruth. His lack of hesitancy
was born of his manly view of the outcast's blamelessness, of her dire
necessity for help, and of a premonition that Ruth Levice would be as
free from the artificiality of conventional surface modesty as was he,
through the earnestness of the undertaking.

There is something very sweet to a woman in being singled out by a man
for some ennobling virtue. Ruth felt this so strongly that she could
almost hear her heart beat with the intoxicating knowledge. No question
had been asked, but she felt an answer was expected. Yet had her life
depended on it, the words could not have come at that moment. Was she
indeed what he esteemed her? Unconsciously Dr. Kemp had, in thought,
placed her on a pedestal. Did she deserve the high place he had given
her, or would she?

With many women the question would have been, did she care for Dr.
Kemp's good opinion? Now, though Ruth was indeed put on her mettle, her
quick sympathy had been instantly touched by the girl's miserable story.
Perhaps the doctor's own feelings had influenced her, but had the girl
stood before her at the moment, she would have seized her hand with all
her own gentle nobility of soul.

As they turned the corner of the block where Ruth's house stood, Kemp
said deliberately,--

"Well?"

"I thank you. Where does she live?"

Her quiet, natural tone told nothing of the tumult of sweet thoughts
within. They had reached the house, and the doctor opened the gate
before he answered. When he did, after they had passed through, he took
both her hands in his.

"I shall take you there," he said, looking down at her with grave,
smiling eyes; "I knew you would not fail me. When shall I call for you?"

"Do not call for me at all; I think--I know it will be b