Ruth Laurence though an invalid, was pining for something which might occupy the slender hands which seemed all too frail for labor. She could do many pretty trifles, however, with those deft fingers, and in her soul lay a deep love of art, which they were patiently striving to work out, whenever a bit of wax or a scrap of paper fell in her way. Sometimes, as the wind swept through the open windows of that little room, it carried off tiny morsels of paper, on which a butterfly, a bird, or a flower was sketched, which went whirling off among the old-fashioned flowers like a living thing. Sometimes Ruth would manage to get ravelings from scraps of silk, out of which she wrought rose-buds for pincushions, and groups of blossoms for segar-cases which brought in a shilling or two, now and then, for the scanty household-fund, and gave her a world of happiness in the sweet power of creation.
She was lying on her couch, close by the window, with a bit of drawing paper in her hand, on which the soft shadows of a white rose were forming themselves, when a click of the gate-latch, and the sound of strange footsteps made her start and look through the window. She saw her brother James by the gate, and with him a tall man, whom she had never seen before. The stranger waited a moment for the boy to complete what he was saying, and then crossed the little yard, while James ran forward to open the door.
“Ruthy! Ruthy, dear! just sit up a little, if you can; I have brought a gentleman, who wants to get acquainted with us. I told him all about things, you know, and he seems to think—Well, I don’t know what he thinks—but something awful kind, I’m sure.”
While James stood in the doorway uttering this exciting little speech, Ruth arose feebly from her pillows, dropped her feet to the floor, and turned her eyes upon the stranger in breathless expectation. She saw a tall slender man, some forty or forty-five years of age, with hair that had once been black as the neck of a raven, large dark eyes full of calm sadness, a forehead as white as marble, and but faintly lined. To these were added a fine sensitive mouth, to which laughter seemed to come never, and smiles but seldom; still, in his face and quiet, gentlemanly air, was that indescribable something which awakes sympathy and verges on tenderness.
“Forgive me, young lady; I did not intend to intrude on you in this abrupt way,” he said, lifting his hat as he crossed the threshold. “I have met a young lady, your sister, I think, who half gave me permission to call.”
“My sister is not at home,” answered Ruth, blushing; for she was so unaccustomed to the sight of a stranger that the presence of this one set her heart into a wild flutter.
“I know; this good lad told me as much. He also told me some other things about his family, that made me think—that made me hope—” The stranger paused, and bent his eyes upon the girl with a long, wistful look, that seemed pleading with her for help.
“Perhaps you hoped to find some one that you knew?”
“Yes, yes; I did hope that—but it was long ago. No friend of mine could be young as you are.”
“Was it somebody you wanted to find, then? Perhaps mother may help you.”