"Poor Ruth! How ill—how miserably ill you look," said the lady, taking the hot hands that seemed to avoid her with a sudden clasp. "Death, even a father's death, cannot have done all this."
Ruth shook her head sorrowfully.
"My father—I have almost forgotten him."
Lady Rose scarcely heeded this mournful confession; but drew the girl down upon the sofa, unconsciously grasping her hands till they would have made her cry out with pain at another time.
"Ruth, I have seen Storms, a man you know of. I met him in the wilderness. He told me—"
"He told you that!" exclaimed Ruth, aroused to new pangs of distress. "And you believed him?"
"Oh, Ruth, he has your father's letter. We could laugh his proof to scorn, but for that."
"Still, I do not believe it," said Ruth, kindling into vitality again. "It was my father's letter. I carried it, not knowing what was written. My poor father believed it, no doubt; but I do not."
"Nor do I," said Lady Rose. "Nothing can make me believe it!"
Ruth threw herself at the young lady's feet, and clung to her in passionate gratitude.