A new tenderness almost unmanned him, but he sat still with his hands clenched, feeling like a brute because of her tears.
The next few minutes seemed like an hour, then Ruth raised her head and tried to smile. “I expect you think I'm silly,” she said, hiding her tear stained face again.
“No!” he cried, sharply; then, with a catch in his throat, he put his hand on her shoulder.
“Don't!” she sobbed, turning away from him, “what—what they said—was bad enough!”
The last words ended in a rush of tears, and, sorely distressed, he began to walk back and forth. Then a bright idea came to him.
“I'll be back in a minute,” he said.
When he returned, he had a tin dipper, freshly filled with cold water. “Don't cry any more,” he pleaded, gently, “I'm going to bathe your face.”
Ruth leaned back against the tree and he knelt beside her. “Oh, that feels so good,” she said, gratefully, as she felt his cool fingers upon her burning eyes. In a little while she was calm again, though her breast still heaved with every fluttering breath.
“You poor little woman,” he said, tenderly, “you're just as nervous as you can be. Don't feel so about it. Just suppose it was somebody who wasn't!”
“Who wasn't what?” asked Ruth, innocently.