"No, your father has still one degree of fever," he grumbled, with
a wise shake of his bushy head. "No--nobody, Miss MacFarlane,--do
you understand? He can see NOBODY--or I won't be responsible," and
with this the crabbed old fellow climbed into his gig and drove
away.
She looked after him for a moment and two hot tears dropped from
her eyes and dashed themselves to pieces on the peach-blossom
ribbon.
But the sky was clearing again--she didn't realize it,--but it
was. April skies always make alternate lights and darks. The old
curmudgeon had gone, but the garden gate was again a-swing.
Ruth heard the tread on the porch and drawing back the curtains
looked out. The most brilliant sunbeams were but dull rays
compared with what now flashed from her eyes. Nor did she wait for
any other hand than her own to turn the knob of the door.
"Why, Mr. Breen!"
"Yes, Miss Ruth," Jack answered, lifting his hat, an unrestrained
gladness at the sight of her beauty and freshness illumining his
face. "I have come to report for duty to your father.
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