erstood.

He regained his presence of mind and turned quietly to quit the room;
his innate delicacy demanded it. He had but turned when a low, moaning
sound arrested him; he came back irresolutely.

"Did you call, Ruth?"

Silence.

"Ruth, it is I, Louis, who is speaking to you. Do you know how late it
is?"

With gentle force he drew her fingers from her face. The mute misery
there depicted was pitiful.

"Come, go to bed, Ruth," he said as to a child.

She made a movement to rise, but sank back again.

"I am so tired, Louis," she pleaded in a voice of tears, like a weary
child.

"Yes, I know; but I will help you." The unfamiliar, gentle quality of
his voice penetrated even to her numbed senses.

She had not seen him since the night he had asked her to be his wife. No
remembrance of this came to her, but his presence held something new
and restful. She allowed him to draw her to her feet; and as calmly as a
brother he led her upstairs and into her room. Without a question he lit
the gas for her.

"Good-night, Ruth," he said, blowing out the match. "Go right to bed;
your head will be relieved by sleep."

"Thank you, Louis," she said, feeling dimly grateful for something his
words implied; "good-night."

Arnold noiselessly closed the door behind him. She quickly locked it and
sat down in the nearest chair.

Her hands were interlaced so tightly that her nails left imprints in
the flesh. She had something to consider. Oh dear, it was such a simple
thing; was she to break her father's heart, or her own and--his? Her
father's, or his.

It was so stupid to sit and repeat it. Surely it was decided long ago.
Such a long time ago, when her father's loving face had put on its
misery. Would it look that way always? No, no, no! She would not have
it; she dared not; it was too utterly wretched.

Still, there was some one else at the thought of whom her temples
throbbed wildly. It would hurt him; she knew it. The thought for a
moment was a miserable ecstasy; for he loved her,--her, simple Ruth
Levice,--beyond all doubting she knew he loved her; and, oh, father,
father, how she loved him! Why must she give it all up? she questioned
fiercely; did she owe no duty to herself? Was she to drag out all the
rest of her weary life without his love? Life! It would be a lingering
death, and she was young yet in years. Other girls had married with
graver obstacles, in open rupture with their parents, and they had been
happy.