He took her hand.
"Will you not come with me?
Do you not love me enough to trust me?
Oh, Ruth," (reproachfully), "can you not trust me ?" She had stopped crying, but was sobbing sadly.
"I cannot bear this, love.

Your sorrow is absolute pain to me; but it is worse to feel how indifferent you are--how little you care about our separation." He dropped her hand.

She burst into a fresh fit of crying.
"I may have to join my mother in Paris; I don't know when I shall see you again.

Oh, Ruth!" said he, vehemently, "do you love me at all ?" She said something in a very low voice; he could not hear it, though he bent down his head--but he took her hand again.
"What was it you said, love?
Was it not that you did love me?
My darling, you do! I can tell it by the trembling of this little hand; then you will not suffer me to go away alone and unhappy, most anxious about you?
There is no other course open to you; my poor girl has no friends to receive her.

I will go home directly, and return in an hour with a carriage.