Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?"
He had answered: "I am."
She had no reason to doubt him. Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding.
How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?
She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. There was one verse that haunted and mocked her.
Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. All she had found was the love of this dog. She threw her arms around Rollo's neck and laid her cheek upon the flea-bitten head.
"Oh, Rollo, there are so many things I don't know! But you love me, don't you?"
Rollo wagged his stump violently and tried to lick her face. He understood. When she released him he ran down the beach for a stick which he fetched and laid at her feet. But she was staring seaward and did not notice the offering.
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