"Any trouble?" he asked, moving toward him and noticing the ashy pallor of his face.
The old man's hand closed spasmodically over the paper.
"Nothing," he managed to answer, waving the man away; "don't notice me."
The clerk, seeing his presence was undesirable, took up his position in the doorway again.
Levice sat on. No further sound broke from him; he had clinched his teeth hard. It had come to this, then. She loved him; it was too late. If the man's heart alone were concerned, it would have been an easy matter; but hers, Ruth's. God! If she really loved, her father knew only too well how she would love. Was the man crazy? Had he entirely forgotten the gulf that lay between them? Great drops of perspiration rose to his forehead.
Two ideas held him in a desperate struggle, --his child's happiness; the prejudice of a lifetime. Something conquered finally, and he arose quietly and walked slowly off.
Through the trees he heard laughter. He walked round and saw her swinging Will Tyrrell.
"There's your father," cried Boss, from the limb of a tree.
She looked up, startled. With a newborn shyness she had endeavored to put off this meeting with her father. She gave the swing another push and waited his approach with beating heart.
"The boys will excuse you, Ruth, I think; I wish you to come for a short walk with me."
At his voice, the gentle seriousness of which penetrated even to the Tyrrell boys' understanding, she felt that her secret was known.
She laid her arm about his neck and gave him his usual morning kiss, reddening slowly under his long searching look as he held her to him. She followed him almost blindly as he turned from the grounds and struck into the lane leading to the woods. Mr. Levice walked along, aimlessly knocking off with his stick the dandelions and camomile in the hedges. It was with a wrench he spoke.
"My child," he said, and now the stick acted as a support, "I was just handed a note from Dr. Kemp. He has asked me for your hand."
In the pause that followed Ruth's lovely face was hidden in her hat.
"He also told me that he loves you," he continued slowly, "and that you return his love. Will you turn your face to me, Ruth?"
She did so with dignity.
"You love this man?"
"I do." As reverently as if at the altar, she faced and answered her father. All her love was in the eyes she raised to his. Beneath their happy glow Levice's sank and his steady lips grew pale.
They were away from mankind in the shelter of the woods, the birds gayly carolling their matins above them.
"And you desire to become his wife?"
Neck, face, and ears were suffused with color as she faltered unsteadily,-- "Oh, Father, he loves me." Then at the wonder of it, she exclaimed, throwing her arms about his neck impulsively and hiding her face in his shoulder, "I am so happy, so happy! It seems almost too beautiful to be true."
The old man's trembling hand smoothed the soft little tendrils of hair that had escaped from their pins. He stifled a groan as he was thus disarmed.
"And what," she asked, her sweet eyes holding his as she stepped back, "what do you think of Herbert Kemp, M. D.? Will you be proud of your son-in-law, Father darling?"
Levice's hand fell suddenly on her shoulder. He schooled himself to smile quietly upon her.
"Dr. Kemp is a great friend of mine. He is a gentleman whom all the world honors, not only for his professional worth, but for his manly qualities.
I am not surprised that you love him, nor yet that he loves you--except for one thing."
"And that?" she asked, smiling confidently at him.
"Child, you are a Jewess; Dr. Kemp is a Christian."
And still his daughter smiled trustingly.
"What difference can that make, since we love each other?" she asked.
"Will you believe me, Ruth, when I say that all I desire is your happiness?"
"Father, I know it."
"Then I tell you I can never bring myself to approve of a marriage between you and a Christian. There can be no true happiness in such a union."
"Why not? Inasmuch as all my life you have taught me to look upon my Christian friends as upon my Jewish, and since you admit him irreproachable from every standpoint, why can he not be my husband?"
"Have you ever thought of what such a marriage entails?"
"Never."
"Then do so now: think of every sacrifice, social and religious, it enforces; think of the great difference between the Jewish race and the Christians; and if, after you have measured with the deadliest earnestness every duty that married life brings, you can still believe that you will be happy, then marry him."
"With your blessing?" Her lovely, pleading eyes still held his.
"Always with my blessing, child. One thing more: did Dr. Kemp mention anything of this to you?"
"No; he must have forgotten it as I did, or rather, if I ever thought of it, it was a mere passing shadow. I put it aside with the thought that though you and I had never discussed such a circumstance, judging by all your other actions in our relations with Christians, you would be above considering such a thing a serious obstacle to two people's happiness."
