"You have seen him, then? Is he better? Is he—"
"Seen him? Of course I have. It is a heavy walk, but Webb told me how eagerly you took to the strawberries; so I bade Ruthy save the ripest for you every morning; not that she needed telling, for she has picked every one of them, with her own fingers, and the flowers, too."
"Indeed!" murmured the young man, and he smiled as if the strawberries were melting in his mouth.
"Yes, indeed, this morning, when she got here with her little basket full, her fingers were red with them; for she came directly from the beds, that you might have them in their morning-dew, as if they would be the better for that, foolish child."
"Is she well? Is she looking well, Mason?"
"What, Ruthy? No; I can't just say that. With so much sickness in the house, how should she? But a rose is a rose, whether it be white or red."
"Does she ever inquire about me, Mason? We used to be play-fellows, you know."
"Inquire? As if those great eyes of hers had done anything but ask questions; but then years divide people of her rank and yours. Children who play together as equals are master and servant as they become men and women, and my goddaughter is not one to forget her place."
A faint smile quivered over Hurst's lips.
"No, she is not one to forget her place," he murmured, tenderly. Then, remembering himself, he said, with an attempt at carelessness, "But is there not some foolish story afloat about young Storms? That might trouble her, I should think."