"I saw him last evening, after prayer-meeting, I believe," she answered, speaking in her usual quiet tone, but fixing an inquiring look on her father.
"Did he speak of not feeling well?"
"No, sir; not at all. Why?"
"I hear that he is quite sick this morning; was taken in the night. Something like a fit, I should judge; may be nothing but a slight attack, brought on by late suppers. He was at the club last night. I thought I would call after breakfast, and learn the extent of the illness. If you want to send a message or note, I can deliver it."
That was the beginning of dreary days. Ruth prepared her note—a tender, comforting one; but it was brought back to her; and as her father handed it to her he said:
"He can't read it now, daughter. I dare say it would comfort him if he could; but he is delirious; didn't know me; hasn't known any one since he was taken in the night. Keep the letter till this passes off, then he will be ready for it."
Very kind and sympathetic were Ruth's friends. The girls came to see her, and kissed her wistfully, with tears in their eyes, but they had little to say. They knew just how sick her friend was, and they felt as though there was nothing left to say. Her father neglected his business to stay at home with her, and in many a little, thoughtful way touched her heavy heart, as the hours dragged by.
Not many hours to wait. It was in the early dawn of the third morning after the news had reached her, that the door-bell pealed sharply through the house. There was but one servant up; she answered the bell.
Ruth was up and dressed, and stood in the hall above, listening for what that bell might bring to her. She heard the hurried voice at the door; heard the peremptory order:
"I want to see Judge Erskine right away."