“Yes; but about this little heart. Ruthy, will you confide in me?”
Marie drew the trembling girl closer to her side, and tried to gaze in her face, but it was averted.
“Yes,” she whispered; “of course I will.”
“Then tell me this—frankly: you love Marcus Glen?”
The pained aspect came back into Marie’s face, and her brow was rugged, as she waited for Ruth’s answer.
“I don’t know,” said Ruth at last.
“You don’t know? Is this your confidence?”
“Oh, don’t speak angrily to me!” cried Ruth passionately. “I will keep nothing from you, Marie. Indeed, indeed I do not know, only that I have prayed, so hard, so very hard, that I might not love him.”
“Prayed that you might not love him?” said Marie, smiling.
“Yes; for I felt that it would be so treacherous, and that it would cause pain to all—to you—to me. Oh, why do you ask me this?”