"Well, we were speaking, I think, of the young master. It was he that persuaded me to come here, and observe for myself how you were getting on."
"Did he indeed?" murmured Ruth, laying her burning cheek lovingly against the old lady's.
"Yes, indeed. The weather is over warm for much walking; but how could I say no when he would trust only me? 'Women,' he said, 'took so much more notice, being used to sick-rooms,' and he could not rest without news of your father—something more than 'he is better, or he is worse,' which could only be got from a person constantly in the sick-room."
"How anxious! I—I—How kind he is!" said Ruth.
"That he is. Had Jessup been akin to him, instead of a faithful old servant, he couldn't have shown more feeling."
Ruth sighed, and her sweet face brightened. The housekeeper went on.
"We were by ourselves when he said this, and spoke of the old times when I could refuse him nothing, in a way that went to my heart, for it was the truth. So I just kissed his hand—once it would have been his face—and promised to come and have a chat with you, and see for myself how it was with Jessup."
"You will say how much better he is."
"Yes, yes! He seems to be getting on famously. No reason for anxiety, as I shall tell him. Now, Ruth, as your father seems quiet, let us go down into the garden. I was to bring some fruit from the strawberry-beds, which he craves, thinking it better than ours."
"Go with her, and pick the finest," said Jessup. "I feel like sleeping."