"Why, child, how chirpish you speak, all at once! I hardly knew your voice. But what was I saying? Ah, I remember. Yes, yes! The young master scarcely got back his speech before he began to question us about Jessup, whose hurt seems to wound him more than his own. To pacify him Lady Rose sent round every morning."
"Lady Rose! Did the messengers come from her?" questioned Ruth, and her voice sunk again.
"Of course. Sir Noel, in his trouble, might have forgotten; but she never did. Ah, goddaughter, that young lady is one in a thousand, so gentle, so lovely, so—"
"Yes, yes! I know—I know!"
"Such a match as they will make."
Ruth turned very pale; still a singular smile crept over her lips. She said nothing, however, but walked to a window, and looked out, as if fascinated by the rich masses of ivy that swept an angle of the building like black drapery.
"How the ivy thrives on that south wall!" she said, at last. "I can remember when it was only a stem."
"Of course you can; for I planted it on the day you were born, with my own hands. There has been time enough for it to spread. Why, it has crept round to the young master's window. He would have it trained that way."
"Godmother, how good you are!"
"Not a bit of it, child. Only I was always careful of that ivy. Ruth's ivy, we always call it, because of the day it was planted."