And last, and by no means least, had he not the morning he had left for New York, his holiday being over, taken Ruth in his arms and putting his lips close to her ear, whispered something into its pink shell that had started northern lights dancing all over her cheeks and away up to the roots of her hair; and had she not given him a good hug and kissed him in return, a thing she had never done in her whole life before?
And had he not stopped on his way to the station for a last hand-shake with Jack and to congratulate him for the hundredth time for his plucky rescue of MacFarlane--a subject he never ceased to talk about--and had he not at the very last moment, told Jack every word of what he and Ruth talked about, with all the details elaborated, even to the hug, which was no sooner told than another set of northern lights got into action at once, and another hug followed; only this time it took the form of a hearty hand-shake and a pat on Peter's back, followed by a big tear which the boy tried his best to conceal?
Peter had no theories detrimental to penniless young gentlemen, pursued by intermeddling old ladies.
And yet with all this there was one corner deep down in Ruth's heart so overgrown with "wonderings" and "whys," so thick with tangled doubts and misgivings, that no cheering ray of certainty had yet been able to pierce it.

Nor had any one tried.

Miss Felicia, good as she was and loving as she had been, had done nothing in the pruning way--that is, nothing which would let in any sunshine radiating from Jack.

She had talked about him, it is true; not to her, we may be sure, but to her father, saying how handsome he had grown and what a fine man he was making of himself.

She had, too, more than once commented--and this before everybody--on his good manners and his breeding, especially on the way he had received her the first morning she called, and to his never apologizing for his miserable surroundings, meagre as they were--just a theodolite, his father's portrait and half a dozen books alone being visible, the white walls covered with working plans.
But when the poor girl had tried to draw from her some word that was personal to himself, or one that might become personal--and she did try even to the verge of betraying herself, which would never have done--Miss Felicia had always turned the subject at once or had pleaded forgetfulness.