“I can easily believe that,” said Ross, glancing at Ruth, who still kept her position, with tears trembling on her eyelashes—a delicate, fair girl, with the refinement of a cultivated intellect in every feature. “At least you are blessed in the children my friend loved so well.”
“They are good children,” answered the woman, wearily; for the excitement of her narrative had left her cold and weak. Still, the stranger looked as if something was unexplained. He moved across the room, and in a vague way took up the bit of drawing-paper, on which Ruth had sketched her white roses. The delicacy of the touch, and free unfolding of the buds, seemed to arrest his thoughts, and turn them into another channel. His eyes brightened, and bending them upon Ruth, he asked her if she had ever attempted anything in oils.
Ruth blushed and casting her eyes down, that he might not remark the longing wish that spoke there, answered, “No; it had been impossible.”
He seemed to understand the craving wish that had never yet been expressed, and after a moment’s hesitation, observed,
“I sometimes paint a little.” Then, after hesitating a minute, he added, “There must be an upper room in your house which would give sufficient light.”
“Yes,” answered Ruth, vaguely comprehending his idea. “But mother was in hopes of letting that, if she could find a nice person.”
The flash of a kindly thought came into those dark eyes, and Ross seemed about to speak; but he checked himself, looked at the sketch again, and laid it down.
“Is your sister anything of an artist?” he inquired.
“Oh, Eva can do almost anything!” said Ruth, and her face brightened out of its mournful look.
“She is older than you, I should think.”