rience. The question was, Could she fulfil those pledges?
Had they a thought in common now? Could she live with him the sort of
life that she had promised to live, and that she solemnly meant to live?
If she _could_, was it right to do so? You see she had enough to torment
her; only she set about thinking of it in so strange a manner; not at
all as she would have thought about it if the pledges she had given him
had meant to her all that they mean to some, all that they ought to mean
to any one who makes them. This phase of it also troubled her.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXI.

RUTH AND HAROLD.

THERE had been in Judge Erskine's mind a slight sense of wonderment as
to how he should meet his daughter the morning after his astounding
appearance at prayer-meeting. Such a new and singular departure was it,
that he even felt a slight shade of embarrassment.

But, before the hour of meeting her arrived, his thoughts were turned
into an entirely new channel. He met her, looking very grave, and with a
touch of tenderness about his manner that was new to her. She, on her
part, was not much more at rest than she had been the evening before.
She realized that her heart was in an actual state of rebellion against
any form of decided Christian work that she could plan. Clearly,
something was wrong with her. If she had been familiar with a certain
old Christian, she might have borrowed his language to express in part
her feeling.

"To will is present with me, but how to perform that which is good I
know not." Not quite that, either, for while she said, "I _can't_ do
this thing, or that thing," she was clear-minded enough to see that it
simply meant, after all, "I will not." The will was at fault, and she
knew it. She did not fully comprehend yet that she had set out to be a
Christian, and at the same time to have her own way in the least little
thing; but she had a glimmering sense that such was the trouble.

Her father, after taking surreptitious glances at her pale face and
troubled eyes, decided finally that what was to be said must be said,
and asked, abruptly:

"When did you see Harold, my daughter?"

Ruth started, and the question made the blood rush to her face, she did
not know why.

"I saw him last evening, after prayer-meeting, I believe," she
answered, speaking in her usual quiet tone, but fixing an inquiring look
on her father.

"Did he speak of not feeling well?"

"No, sir; not at