“Lady Ruth, I thought you went out with the rest,” he stammers, with a guilty blush, for it chances that at the very moment he is thinking of her, and what a soft, electric touch she has, so soothing, so very delightful.

“I did not go; I was watching you.”

“An interesting study, surely.”

“It was to me.  I desired to know whether you secretly feared the results of your wound.”

“And I did not dream you were so concerned about me.  Considering the matter calmly, I am disposed to believe there is now no danger—­that the hot iron radically destroyed the last chance of infection.”

“I am very glad to hear you say so.”

“You care a little, then?”

How quickly she is on her guard.

“Because I would not see a brave boy needlessly sacrificed.”

“You look on me as a boy.  I am twenty-three.”

“My own age, sir.  That gives me the right to feel myself your senior.”

“How so?”

“You know a woman is older at twenty-three than a man.  Then you do not wear a beard.”

“I shall cultivate one from this hour.  Why, a year ago I looked like a pard, but was influenced to change.”

Again that quick flash of intelligence.

“Ah!  Doctor Chicago has left a lady love in the city on the lake.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Several remarks you have made; the one just now, and then in reference to the spur that sent you to face that dog.  Ah! my friend, it must have been a strong motive to influence you like that.”

He overlooks the peculiar patronizing air, such as a young woman sometimes assumes toward a boy her junior.

“Lady Ruth, the person you refer to, the thought of whom sent me to save that child, bears what is to me the holiest name on earth—­mother.”

She draws a quick breath.

“Forgive me.  I was rude.”

“Not at all.  My words admitted of just such a meaning as you placed upon them.”

“You left her in Chicago, of course.”

John looks at her steadily.

“Lady Ruth, it may sound strange to you after what I have said, but my memories of my mother are all confined to the far past, to a period when I was a mere child; but they are none the less previous on that account.”

She looks puzzled, as well she may.

“Do you mean she is—­dead?”

“Heaven forbid, but I have not seen her in all these years.  That is one reason I am abroad, Lady Ruth.  I have a sacred mission to perform—­to find my mother—­to seek the solution of a mystery which has embittered my life.  Perhaps some time, if we know each other a little better, I may confide a strange and sad story to you.”

“Just as you please, doctor,” she replies, with deep feeling in her voice, and at this moment the others bustle in.

“You must show yourself on the balcony.  The dear people clamor for a sight of you, and I am really afraid they’ll tear the house down soon if you don’t appear before them,” says Aunt Gwen, with unusual vigor.