“Well—yes—perhaps, my child; but your pure, sweet young mind would eliminate the evil, and retain only the true and good. I should not debar you from such works. So you young ladies obtain novels from the library?”
“I do not,” said Ruth simply. “But pray do not ask me such things, Mr Montaigne; it makes me seem to be tale-bearing about my cousins.”
“Don’t be afraid, my child,” continued Montaigne; “let there be more confidence between us. Believe me, Ruth, you may trust me always as your best friend, and one to whom your welfare is very, very dear.”
“Thank you, Mr Montaigne,” faltered Ruth; “I will try to think of you as you wish. Will you let me ring for candles now?”
“Oh no, it is not necessary, my dear; I am going directly. Come, Ruth, my child, why do you shrink away? Am I so very dreadful, my little girl? There, sit still,” he said in a whisper. “I shall have to make you a prisoner, while I read you a lesson on obedience and duty to those who have your welfare at heart.”
Ruth was growing alarmed, for he had softly passed one arm round her little waist, and in spite of her feeble struggles drawn her to his side.
“There, my child, now I feel as if you were my own loving, dutiful little girl whom I had adopted; and I am going to cross-examine you like a father confessor,” he continued playfully. “Ruth dear, I hope this little heart is in safe-keeping.”
“I—I do not understand you, Mr Montaigne,” cried Ruth, whose womanly instincts were now alarmed.
“Will you loose me, please, and let me ring for the candles? It is quite dark.”
“But you are not afraid of being in the dark, my child,” he whispered; “and—hush! not a word.”