As her voice died slowly into silence, she found Ethel looking over her shoulder and nodding her head.
“No; I won’t tell,” she said loudly.
“Tell what?” asked Ruth, amused.
“Hush! He put his finger on his mouf—sh!”
“Who?” asked Ruth, turning her head hurriedly. Not being able to see through the tree, she started to her feet, still holding the child. Between two trees stood the stalwart figure of Dr. Kemp,—Dr. Kemp in loose, light gray tweeds and white flannel shirt; on the back of his head was a small, soft felt hat, which he lifted as she turned,—a wave of color springing to his cheek with the action. As for Ruth,—a woman’s face dare not speak sometimes.
“Did I startle you?” he asked, coming slowly forward, hat in hand, the golden shafts of the sun falling upon his head and figure.
“Yes,” she answered, trying to speak calmly, and failing, dropped into silence.
She made no movement toward him, but let the child glide softly down till she stood at her side.
“I interrupted you,” he continued; “will you shake hands with me, nevertheless?”
She put her hand in his proffered one, which lingered in the touch; and then, without looking at her, he stooped and spoke to the child. In that moment she had time to compose herself.