“Daddy is still in his room,” she rattled on nervously, “but he may be out and prowling about the upstairs hall any minute. He has a heap of things to talk over with you--he told me so last night--and if he knew you were here nothing would stop him. Wait till I shut the door. And now tell me about yourself,” she continued in a louder voice, regaining her seat. “You have had a dreadful time, I hear--it was the wrist, wasn't it?” She felt she was beginning badly; although conscious of her nervous joy and her desire to conceal it, somehow it seemed hard for her to say the right thing. “Oh, I reckon it was everything, Miss Ruth, but it's all over now.” He was not nervous. He was in an ecstasy. His eyes were drinking in the round of her throat and the waves of glorious hair that crowned her lovely head. He noticed, too, some tiny threads that lay close to her ears: he had been so hungry for a glimpse of them! “Oh, I hope so, but you shouldn't have come to the station that day,” she struggled on. “We had Uncle Peter with us, and only a hand-bag, each of us,--we came away so suddenly.” “I didn't want you to be frightened about your father. I didn't know that Uncle Peter was with you; in fact, I didn't know much of anything until it was all over. Bolton sent the telegram as soon as he got his breath.” “That's what frightened us. Why didn't YOU send it?” she was gaining control of herself now and something of her old poise had returned. “I hadn't got MY breath,--not all of it. I remember his coming into my room where they were tying me up and bawling out something about how to reach you by wire, and he says now that I gave him Mr. Grayson's address. I cannot remember that part of it, except that I--Well, never mind about that--” he hesitated turning away his gaze--the memory seemed to bring with it a certain pain. “Yes,--tell me,” she pleaded. She was too happy. This was what she had been waiting for. There was no detail he must omit. “It was nothing, only I kept thinking it was you who were hurt,” he stammered. “Me!” she cried, her eyes dancing. The ray of light was breaking--one with a promise in it for the future! “Yes,--you, Miss Ruth! Funny, isn't it, how when you are half dead you get things mixed up.” Oh, the stupidity of these lovers! Not a thing had he seen of the flash of expectation in her eyes or of the hot color rising to her cheeks. “I thought somebody was trying to tell your father that you were hurt, and I was fighting to keep him from hearing it. But you must thank Bolton for letting you know.” Ruth's face clouded and the sparkle died out in her eyes. What was Mr. Bolton to her, and at a time like this? “It was most kind of Mr. Bolton,” she answered in a constrained voice. “I only wish he had said something more; we had a terrible day. Uncle Peter was nearly crazy about you; he telegraphed and telegraphed, but we could get no answer. That's why it was such a relief to find you at the station.”