I did not dare to look at him, and I came to a stop in my speech because I could feel that he was pressing eagerly to my side.
"You what, Ruth?" he demanded, his voice quivering. "Be careful!"
Perhaps his agitation helped me to master mine. Certain it is for the moment I thought only that he must not be kept in suspense, and so I burst out abruptly:—
"Tom, you are horrid! I've offered myself to you once, and now you want me to protest in the open street that I can't live without you! Well, then; I can't!"
"Ruth!"
It was all he said; just my name, which he has said hundreds and hundreds of times ever since he could say anything; but I think I can never hear my name again without remembering the love he put into it. I trembled with happiness, but I would not look at him. I walked on with my eyes fixed on the snowy hills beyond the town, and tried to believe I was acting as if I had said nothing and felt nothing unusual. I remember our words up to this time, but after that it is all a joyful blur. I know Tom walked about and waited for me while I did my errand with Peggy Cole; the droll old creature scolded me because the flannel was not thicker, and I beamed on her as if she were expressing gratitude; then he walked home with me, and couldn't come in because as we turned the corner we saw Aunt Naomi walk into the house.
One thing I do remember of our talk on the way home. Tom said suddenly, and with a solemnity of manner that made me grave at once:—
"There is one thing more, Ruth, we must be frank about now or we shall always have it between us. Can you forgive me for being baby's father?"
He had found just the phrase for that dreadful thing which made it most easy for me to answer.
"Tom, dear," I answered, "it isn't for me to forgive or not to forgive. It is in the past, and I want to help you to forget utterly what cannot now be helped."