Jack looked into her eyes and a hopeless, tired expression crossed
his face.
"I don't know," he said in a barely audible voice:--"I just--
please, Miss Ruth, let us talk of something else; let me tell you
how lovely your gown is and how glad I am you wore it to-day. I
always liked it, and--"
"No,--never mind about my gown; I would rather you did not like
anything about me than misunderstand me!" The tears were just
under the lids;--one more thrust like the last and they would be
streaming down her cheeks.
"But I haven't misunderstood you." He saw the lips quiver, but it
was anger, he thought, that caused it.
"Yes, you have!"--a great lump had risen in her throat. "You have
done a brave, noble act,--everybody says so; you carried my dear
father out on your back when there was not but one chance in a
thousand you would ever get out alive; you lay in a faint for
hours and once they gave you up for dead; then you thought enough
of Uncle Peter and all of us to get that telegram sent so we
wouldn't be terrified to death and then at the risk of your life
you met us at the station and have been in bed ever since, and yet
I am to sit still and not say a word!" It was all she could do to
control herself.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344