"Well, if they did, I say he must have had a mighty long pew. Do you s'pose they all slept in the same bed?"
"Perhaps."
Cyrus laughed. "Seven hundred wives in one bed! Cracky! I guess old Solomon slept on the floor!"
He turned and smiled into the girl's face. But he saw no mirth, only surprise and disapproval as the lovely eyes looked into his own. He was learning his first lesson in the noble art of suppressing humor in the presence of humorous things when taken seriously. And he blushed at his own frivolity. Moreover, his sympathy for the much married Solomon did not weaken his allegiance to the girl beside him. There was, to be sure, a peculiar excitement in the idea of sitting at breakfast with seven hundred Ruths entirely his own. Yet, somehow, the vision daunted him. Even the vision of a hundred Ruths, all just alike, filled him with a kind of awe—an awe of more things than he could ever live up to. Seeking courage and consolation, he looked down into the face of Zac as a companion more like himself—on a lower spiritual plane. Zac, still sitting in front of them, always looking earnestly into the face of whoever was speaking, appeared interested in the conversation. Cyrus stroked his head, then stood up.
"Let's go ahead with this marrying, if you say so. But where's the fun of it?"
"Oh, in doing such a beautiful thing—and being better."
"There's no great fun in being better. We are good enough already."
"Oh, Cyrus! Nobody is good enough already except our fathers and mothers and ministers."
Ruth's manner was solemn. The responsibility of the enterprise seemed to rest entirely on her own shoulders. While she was deciding, with far away look, on the next step, Cyrus said: