"Nay, nay, sir. This will never do. The window must be closed. An east wind is blowing."
A noise of the closing window followed, and with a sigh Ruth shrunk back to her shelter against the wall, disappointed, but trembling all over with the happiness of having seen him.
What cared she for Lady Rose then? Had he not looked into her eyes with the old, fond glance? Had he not reached out his arms in a quick passion of delight as she fled from him? Was he not her husband, her own, own husband?
There, in the very midst of her fright, and her newly-fledged joy, the young wife drew the wedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it, rapturously murmuring:
"He loves me! He loves me! and what else do I care for? Nothing, nothing, in the wide wide, world!"
But in the midst of this unreasoning outburst, poor Ruth remembered the father she had left a wounded prisoner in the cottage, and a spasm of pain shot through her. Ah, if she were sure, if she were only sure that no secret was kept from her there. But it must be right. Some great misunderstanding had arisen to distress her father beyond the pain of his wounds. But when the two beings she most loved on earth were well enough to meet and explain, all would be clear and bright again. Her husband had the letter safe in his hands. She would go home at once, and tell her father that, and afterward steal off alone, and feast on the happiness that made her very breath a joy.
Out, through the rose-thickets, the clustering honeysuckles, and the beds of blooming flowers, Ruth stole, like a bee, overladen with honey, and carried her happiness back to the cottage.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
A STORM AT THE TWO RAVENS.