"Yes, I dare say," answered Ruth, quite unconscious of speaking at all. "You are very wise in saying so."
"Ah, wisdom comes with age; generally too late for much good. If one could have it now in the wild-oat season; but that isn't to be expected. Speaking of Lady Rose, here comes her pony-carriage, and here comes herself, with Sir Noel, to put her in. Do you know, Ruth, I don't think the master has been quite himself since that night. There is an anxious look in his eyes that I never saw there before. It should go away now that Mr. Walton is better, but somehow it don't."
Ruth did not answer. She was looking through the window at the group of persons that stood near a pony-carriage, perfect in all its equipments, which was in front of the house. Lady Rose, who had come down the steps leisurely, side by side with Sir Noel, was loitering a little, as if she waited for something. She examined the buttons of her gloves, and arranged her draperies, all the while casting furtive glances up to a window, at which no one seemed to appear, as she had hoped. Sir Noel, too, glanced up once or twice, rather wistfully, and then Ruth saw that his face did indeed wear a look that was almost haggard.
"Tell me—tell me! Is he so very ill yet, that his father looks like that?" cried Ruth, struck by a sudden pang of distrust. "I thought he was getting better."
"And so he is, child. Who said to the contrary? But that doesn't take the black cloud out of his father's face."
"Then he really is better?"
"Better? Why, he sat up an hour yesterday."
"Did he—did he, indeed?" cried Ruth, joyfully. "Did he really?"
"He did, really, and our lady reading to him all the time."
"Ah!"