The tall grandfather's clock in the corner beat out the moments with loud and monotonous click. The fire in the grate sank lower and lower. All the village noises died down into silence. Mrs. Penlogan's chin, in spite of her anxiety, began to droop upon her bosom.
"I think we shall be left undisturbed to-night," Ralph said, with a pathetic smile. "Perhaps we had better get off to bed."
Mrs. Penlogan rose at once and fetched the family Bible and handed it on to Ruth. It fell open at the 23rd Psalm: "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want."
Ruth read it in a low, even voice. It was her father's favourite portion—his sheet-anchor when the storms of life raged most fiercely. Now he was beyond the tempest and beyond the strife.
For the first time Ralph felt thankful that he was dead.
"Dear old father," he said to himself. "He has got beyond the worry and the pain. His heart will ache no more for ever."
They all knelt down when the psalm ended; but no one prayed aloud.
Ralph remained after the others had gone upstairs. It seemed of little use going to bed, he felt too restless to sleep.
Ever since Dorothy went away he had been expecting Policeman Budda to call with a warrant for his arrest. Why he had not come he could not understand. He wondered if Dorothy had interceded with her father, and his eyes softened at the thought.
He did not blame himself for loving her in a restrained and far-off way. She was so fair and sweet and generous. That she was beyond his reach was no fault of his—that he had carried her in his arms and pressed her to his heart was the tragedy as well as the romance of his life. That she had watched by him and succoured him in the plantation was only another cord that bound his heart to her. That he should love her was but the inevitable sequence of events.