Ruth shrunk away, and once more rested her head on the quilt, that was soon wet with her tears. After a little she crept close to him again, and timidly touched his hand.
"Father!"
"Poor child! Poor, foolish child!"
"Father, forgive me!"
The sick man's face quivered all over, and, spite of an effort to restrain it, his poor hand rose tremblingly, and fell on that bowed head.
"Oh, my child! if we had both died before this thing happened."
"I wish we had. Oh, how I wish we had!"
"It was my fault," murmured the sick man.
"No, no! It was mine. I am to blame, I alone."
"I might have known it; poor, lost lamb, I might have known it."