cool palms, murmured in choking accents:

"Her father--my child--my God, I thank thee!"

But the strain was too much. In a moment more he sank all in a heap upon
the floor, limp and lifeless.

Passionately the girl knelt beside him, and looked searchingly into his
now colorless face, while the others hastened with restoratives. Nor did
she leave him during the days of illness that followed, except when
obliged to rest. Little by little they had told her the story.

She only said: "Oh, I never dreamed he was like this. I used to think
he must be something inhuman, horrible. Then I found myself staring at
every stranger, especially if he was monstrous, or in the least hideous.
But I had given up all hope, and was afraid to ask."

"No, my dear child;" soothingly said her aunt, "your father is not
horrible, or hideous except that he is the slave of drink. He is not
inhuman, but a tender, loving creature. He is a gentleman, cultured and
learned. There is nothing fine in the language he cannot repeat, so
wonderful is his gift of memory. Oh, my child, can you not--will you not
help him? You can win him, I feel sure."

Ruth learned to love her father by reason of his idolatrous devotion
to her, as well as the powerful influence of his brilliant talents. In
those first days of convalescence he followed her feebly from room to
room, drinking in the joy of having her after the privation of years;
and one day folding her to his breast said: