“It is the story of the Rose of Sharon. This is it briefly: A pilgrim was about to start on a voyage to the Holy Land. In bidding a friend good-by, he said: ‘In that far land to which I am journeying, is there not some relic, some sacred souvenir of the time beautiful, that I can bring to you?’ The friend mused awhile. ‘Yes,’ he made answer finally; ‘there is a small thing, and one not difficult to obtain. I beg of you to bring me a single rose from the plains of Sharon.’ The pilgrim promised, and departed. On his return he presented himself before his friend. ‘You have brought it?’ he cried. ‘Friend,’ answered the pilgrim, sadly, ‘I have brought your rose; but, alas! After all this weary travelling it is now but a poor, withered thing.’ ‘Give it me!’ exclaimed the friend, eagerly. The other did so. True, it was lifeless and withered; not a vestige remained of its once fragrant glory. But as the man held it tenderly in his hand, memory and love untold overcame him, and he wept in ecstasy. And as his tears fell on the faded rose, lo! The petals sprang up, flushed into life; an exquisite perfume enveloped it,—it had revived in all its beauty. Sir, in the words of the rabbi, ‘In the light of toleration and love, we too have revived, we too are looking up.’”
As the girl paused, Kemp slightly, almost reverentially, raised his hat.
“Miss Levice, that is exquisite,” he said softly.
They had reached the old, poorer section of the city, and the doctor stopped before a weather-beaten cottage.
“This is where Bob receives,” he said, holding out a hand to Ruth; “in all truth it cannot be called a home.”
Ruth had a peculiar, inexplicable feeling of mutual understanding with the doctor as she went in with him. She hardly realized that she had been an impressionable witness of some of his dominant moods, and that she herself had been led on to an unrestrained display of feeling.
Chapter VI
They walked directly into a bare, dark hallway. There was no one stirring, and Kemp softly opened the door of one of several rooms leading into the passage. Here a broad band of yellow sunlight fell unrestrained athwart the waxen-like face of the sleeping boy. The rest of the simple, poor-looking room was in shadow. The doctor noiselessly closed the door behind them, and stepped to the bed, which was covered with a heavy horse-blanket.
The boy on the bed even in sleep could not be accounted good-looking; there was a heaviness of feature, a plentitude of freckles, a shock of lack-lustre hair, that made poor Bob Bard anything but a thing of beauty. And yet, as Ruth looked at him, and saw Kemp’s strong white hand placed gently on the low forehead, a great wave of tender pity took possession of her. Sleep puts the strongest at the mercy of the watcher; there is a loneliness about it, a silent, expressive plea for protection, that appeals unconsciously. Ruth would have liked to raise the rough, lonely head to her bosom.