"Oh, father! what would I do—what would I do?" she sobbed.
The gardener's eyes filled with pity.
"Aye. What would you? But I am not dead yet. There, there! wipe your eyes. We shall live to go away from this dreary place, and take the trouble with us—the trouble and the shame."
A flash of fire shot through the pallor of Ruth Jessup's face. She drew her slender figure upright.
"Shame! No, father. Sick or well, I will not let you say that. No shame has fallen upon us."
"Ruth! Ruth! You say this?"
"Father, I swear it! I, who tremble at the sound of an oath, knowing how sacred a thing it is. I swear it by my mother, who is in heaven!"
The old man reached up his arms, and drew the girl down to his bosom, which was heaving with great wave-like sobs.
"My child! my child! my own—own—"
He murmured these broken words over her. He patted her shoulder; he smoothed her hair with his great, trembling hand. His sobs shook the bed, and a rain of tears moistened his pillow.