"Come, father, the posset is ready. I have been keeping it warm."
Ruth stood on the hearth then, with the antique silver posset-cup, which had been his grandmother's, in her hand. The firelight was full upon her, concealing the pallor of her face with its golden flicker. Surely there could be nothing wrong under that sweet look.
The gardener gave a great sigh of relief as he accepted this thought, and his anger toward Dick Storms grew deep and bitter.
"Come, lass," he said, with more than usual affection, "sit down here by my side. The posset is rare and good; while I eat it, you shall tell me of all that has been done since I went away."
All that had been done since he went away! Would Ruth ever dare to tell her father that? The very thought sent up a rush of blood to her face.
"Oh, father! there is little to be done when you are away. I did not even care to cook my own supper."
"Ah! well, take it now, child," said the good man, pouring half his warm posset into an old china bowl, and pushing it toward her.
"No, no, father, I am not hungry. I think the cooking of food takes away one's appetite."
"Nay, eat. It is lonesome work, with no one to help me," said the father, who certainly had no cause to complain of his own appetite. Ruth stirred the posset languidly with her spoon, and strove to swallow a little; but the effort almost choked her. It might be fancy; but she could not help thinking that her father was furtively regarding her all the time, and the idea filled her with dismay.
Something of the same feeling possessed her father. Inherent kindness made him peculiarly sensitive, and he did not know how to question his daughter of the things that disturbed him, without wounding her and himself too.