"Oh, I slipped in while Mr. Webb was away."
"Well! well! And he was not looking so very ill. He read my letter, and that brightened him up a bit, I'll be bound?" questioned the gardener.
"Not while I was there. I only had a minute. They were on the stairs, and there was no chance for a word."
"But he is getting better; you are sure of that?"
"Oh, yes. I feel quite sure, father."
"Well, I'm thankful for that. Mayhap he'll be able to come and see a poor fellow before long. Then we shall know more about it."
"About what, father?"
"Oh, nothing much! Only I'd give all the money I have been so long hoarding for the wedding-day only to be sure—"
"Then he is not to blame about anything?" broke in Ruth, throwing her arms around the sick man, and kissing him wildly, as if she did not quite know what she was about. "Oh, father! father! How could you ever think ill of him?"
"Child, child! What is all this ado about? Who said that I did think ill of the lad? Him as I have always loved next to my own child! Come, come, now! What have I said to make you so shaky and so fond?"