It was well for Judge Burnham’s peace of mind that he had not come in expecting to see Ruth. She was in the mood to resent such an intrusion, but since it was only books that he wanted, he was welcome. She motioned toward the rows and rows of solemn-looking volumes, as she said:
“Help yourself, Judge Burnham, and make yourself as comfortable as you can. My father’s friends are always welcome to his library.”
Then Judge Burnham said a strange and unexpected word. Standing there, looking at her with those keen, grave eyes of his, thinking, apparently, not of books at all, he said:
“I wish I could help you.”
Something in the tone and something in the emphasis caused a vivid blush to spread over Ruth’s face. She commenced a haughty sentence:
“Thank you; I am sure it is kind; but—” She was about to say, “but, I do not feel in need of help.”
She was stopped by the swift realization that this was not true. She felt, in one sense, in deeper need of help than she had ever done before. Her voice faltered over the words, and finally she stopped, her eyes drooping as they were not wont to droop before others, and those traitorous tears shone in them again. The tearful mood was as foreign to her usual self as possible, and she felt afraid to trust herself to speak further. Besides, what could she say?
Judge Burnham spoke again, earnestly, respectfully:
“I hope you will forgive my intrusion of sympathy, but I do feel for you—perhaps in a way that you can hardly appreciate. There are circumstances in my own hard life that serve to make me in deep sympathy with your present trial. Besides, your father has confided in me fully, and I knew your mother. When I was a boy of fourteen she was a woman, young and beautiful and good. She helped me in a hundred of those nameless ways in which a woman can help a motherless boy. If there was any way in which I could serve her daughter it would give me sincerest pleasure to do so.”