"Ruth!"
"Yes, father!"
"Was he shot like me?"
"I do not know. They say not. Some terrible blow on the head, but no blood."
"A blow on the head! But how? As God is my witness, I struck no one."
Ruth fell to kissing that large, helpless hand, as if some awful stain had just been removed from it. In all her father's sickness she had never touched him with her sweet lips till now. Then all at once she drew back as if an arrow had struck her. It was something keener than that—one of the thoughts that kill as they strike. After a struggle for breath, she spoke.
"But who? Oh, father, you were shot. Was it—was it—"
"Hush, child! Not a word! I—I will not hear a word. Never let that question pass your lips again so long as you live. I charge you—I charge you!"
The sick man fell back exhausted, and gasping for breath. The question put so naturally by his daughter seemed to have given him a dangerous shock.
"But how is he now?"