The gayety of the Indian Summer dance was now at its height.  The mellow sunlight fell straight down through the arching green branches of the bordering trees.  The earth, still warm with the summer’s fires, lifted a cool face to the soft breeze.  The dancers growing tired and hungry about noon, sat down on the greensward in little groups, while the baskets were taken from their hiding-places and the simple feast was soon spread.  The black men served it with the coffee which they had heated over the campfire built at some distance in the forest.  The homespun linen of the table-cloths looked very white on the dark green of the rich grass.  But the single square of fine damask from Ruth’s basket was not whiter than its humble neighbors, and she did not think of her finer linen or richer food.  With Paul Colbert seated on the grass at her right hand, and David at her left, she took what was given her, knowing only that she was quite content and perfectly happy.  She was indeed so happy that she was less gay than usual, for the greatest happiness makes least noise.  She listened to all that was said, saying almost nothing herself.  Paul’s eyes hardly left her face, and he instantly observed that a shadow suddenly clouded it, the same shadow which had fallen over it on the evening before.  Turning his eyes in the direction of her gaze, he saw William Pressley standing not far away.  He did not know that the white-haired gentleman who stood beside the young man was Philip Alston, but he noted that the shadow quickly left Ruth’s face at sight of the older man, when, brightening and smiling, she beckoned the newcomers to approach.  And he also saw what she seemed not to see, that the older man turned a frowning face on the younger, and said something which was not cordially received.  Had he known William Pressley better, he would have seen the dignified protest that was in every line of his large slow-moving figure as he followed Philip Alston across the wide open space to Ruth’s side.  To her, William’s very step said as plain as words could have spoken that he was used to being misunderstood, but none the less sure of having done his whole duty.  She looked up with the little uneasy flutter which this manner of his always caused her.  She so craved love and approval that a dark look made her tender heart ache, even though she was unconscious of having done anything to deserve it.  This was nearly always the state of feeling between her betrothed and herself, but up to this moment she had never doubted that her own shortcomings were wholly to blame.  She hurriedly drew her thin skirt closer about her, nervously trying to make room for him between David and herself.  The boy and doctor rose to their feet as the two men approached.  Ruth sat still on the grass, lifting her blue eyes to William Pressley’s face with a timid, wistful, almost frightened glance.

“You have met Doctor Colbert, William,” she said quickly, and then she turned with a smile that was like a flash of light.  “And uncle Philip—­Mr. Alston—­this is the doctor.”