Ruth sat in her white dressing-gown, her heavy dark hair about her, her brush idle in her hand. Her father stood silently in the doorway, regarding her, a great dread tugging at his heart. Jules Levice was a keen student of the human face, and he had caught a faint glimpse of something in the doctor’s eyes while Ruth sang. He knew it had been harmless, for her back had been turned, but he wished to reassure himself.
“Not in bed yet, my child?”
She started up in confusion as he came in.
“Of what were you thinking, darling?” he continued, putting his hand under her soft white chin and looking deeply into her eyes.
“Well,” she answered slowly, “I was not thinking of anything important; I was thinking of you. We are going to Beacham’s next week—and have you any fine silk shirts?”
He laughed a hearty, relieved laugh.
“Well, no,” he answered; “I leave all such fancies to your care. So we go next week. I am glad; and you?”
“I? Oh, I love the country in its summer dress, you know.”
“Yes. Well, good-night, love.” He took her face between his hands, and drawing it down to his, kissed it. Still holding her, he said with sweet solemnity,—
“‘The Lord bless thee and keep thee.