Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. The problem had returned, made gigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. Sheppard, who witnessed this occurrence with dismay, looked timorously at Wood, in expectation of some hint being given as to the course she had better pursue; but, receiving none, for the carpenter was too much agitated to attend to her, she ventured to express a fear that she was intruding. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood.
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