“But you have not told me, child, who is the young man who behaved so gallantly in rescuing little Billy and others?”
A deep blush overspread the girl’s face as she looked down, and in a low voice said, “It was our old friend Mr Dalton.”
“Ruth!” exclaimed Mrs Dotropy, sharply, with a keen gaze into her daughter’s countenance, “you are in love with Mr Dalton!”
“No, mother, I am not,” replied Ruth, with a decision of tone, and a sudden flash of the mild sweet eyes, that revealed a little of the old spirit of the De Tropys. “Surely I may be permitted to admire a brave man without the charge of being in love with him!”
“Quite true, quite true, my love,” replied the mother, sinking back into her easy-chair. “You had better go now, as you suggest, and calm yourself by writing to your friends.”
Ruth hurried from the room; sought the seclusion of her own chamber; flung herself into a chair, and put the question to herself, “Am I in love with Mr Dalton?”
It was a puzzling question; one that has been put full many a time in this world’s history without receiving a very definite or satisfactory answer. In this particular case it seemed to be not less puzzling than usual, for Ruth repeated it aloud more than once, “Am I in love with Mr Dalton?” without drawing from herself an audible reply.
She remained in the same attitude for a considerable time, with her sweet little head on one side, and her tiny hands clasped loosely on her lap—absorbed in meditation.
From this condition she at last roused herself to sit down before a table with pen, ink, and paper. Then she went to work on a graphic description of the wreck of the Evening Star—in which, of course, Mr Dalton unavoidably played a very prominent part.
Human nature is strangely and swiftly adaptable. Ruth’s heart fluttered with pleasure as she described the heroism of the young man, and next moment it throbbed with deepest sadness as she told of Mrs Bright’s woe, and the paper on which she wrote became blotted with her tears.