her to-day, as he has clothed her in
all his glory, and seems reluctant to pass her by on his homeward
journey.

The heat has made her pale and languid; but just at this moment a
faint delicate color springs into her face; and as the figure of a
young man, tall and broad-shouldered, turns the corner of the road,
she raises her hand to her cheek with a swift involuntary gesture. A
moment later, as the figure comes closer, so near that the face is
discernible, she pales again, and grows white as an early snow drop.

"Good-morning, Ruth," says Dorian Branscombe, with a smile, apparently
oblivious of the fact that morning has given place to noon many hours
agone.

Ruth returns his salutation gently, and lets her hand lie for an
instant in his.

"This is a summer's day, with a vengeance," says Dorian, genially,
proceeding to make himself comfortable on the top of the low wall near
which she is standing. He is plainly making up his mind to a long and
exhaustive conversation. "Talk of India!" he says disparagingly; "this
beats it to fits!"

Ruth acquiesces amiably.

"It is warm,--very," she says, calmly, but indifferently.

"'Ot I call it,--werry 'ot," returns he, making his quotation as
genially as though she understands it, and, plucking a little rose-bud
from a tree near him, proceeds to adorn his coat with it.

"It seems a long time since I have seen you," he goes on, presently;
and, as he speaks, his eyes again seek hers. Something in her face
touches some chord in his careless kindly nature.

"How pale you are!" he says, abruptly.

"Am I? The heat, no doubt,"--with a faint smile.

"But thin, too, are you not? And--and--" he pauses. "Anything wrong
with you, Ruth?"

"Wrong? No! How should there be?" retorts she, in a curious tone, in
which fear and annoyance fight for mastery. Then the storm dies away,
and the startled look fades from her pretty face.

"Why should you think me unhappy because I am a little pale?" she
asks, sullenly.

Branscombe looks surprised.

"You altogether mistake me," he says, gently. "I never associated you
in my mind with unhappiness. I merely meant, had you a headache, or
any other of those small ills that female flesh is heir to? I beg your
pardon, I'm sure, if I have offended you."

He has jumped off the wall, and is now standing before her, with only
the little gate between them. Her face is still colorless, and she is
gazing up at him with parted lips, as though she woul