The little singing voice from the basket-cradle made answer sweetly in one brief bubble-word.
Ruth heard it, put her hand to her heart, and turned slowly away, the chains of the yoke upon her shoulders jingling faintly.
Ernie came to her.
"You mustn't, Ernie," she murmured.
"I must then," he whispered in her ear, "my dear love—my lady."
His arm stole about her; but she put it aside, and regarded him with eyes that were great and grieved under the evening sky.
"Ernie," she said in her gently thrilling voice. "Goo away, there's a dear lad—afoor worse comes of it. You can't help me; and I might harm you."
He took her hands in his, and kissed them.
A working-man in speech, in habit, and in garb, he made love always as a Beauregard. Indeed in the great moments of his life it was always one of those pale chivalrous gentlemen who stood out amid the motley and tumultuous concourse of the forbears who thronged his path.
"But you can help me, Ruth," he told her. "I got my weakness. I dare say you've heard tell."