What does it
matter, after all--our knowing nothing about ourselves, who we are, or
where we came from? We are happy, everybody is kind and good to us."
They started at the sound of a voice calling her name, and they saw
William Pressley come out of the dark shadows beneath the trees, and
stand still, waiting for them to approach.
"It is late, my dear, for you to be roaming about the woods like this,"
he said, when they were near enough.
He used the term of endearment in the tone of calm, moderate reproof
which a justly displeased, but self-controlled husband sometimes uses.
And Ruth felt the resentment that every woman feels at its unconscious
mockery.
"Why, there isn't any danger," she said. "We haven't been out of sight
and hearing from Cedar House."
"I was thinking of seemliness, not of danger," William Pressley replied
coldly. "And then Mr. Alston is waiting for you."
Ruth moved nearer, and laid her hand on his arm, smiling rather timidly,
with conciliatory, upward glances. Her first effort, whenever they met,
was always to make something right--often before she could remember what
it was that she had done or not done to displease him.
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