"Why, we always go to the Temple, you know; and I would not miss the Atonement services for a great deal."
"Why don't you say 'Yom Kippur,' as everybody else does?"
"Because 'Atonement' is English and means something to me. Is there anything odd about that?"
"I suppose not. By the way, if there is anything you would like to have done while you are away, let me know."
"I think I have seen to everything. You might run in and see Louis now and then."
"Louis," Mrs. Lewis called instantly, "be sure to come in often for dinner while the folks are gone."
"Thank you; I shall. The last dinner I ate with you was delicious enough to do away with any verbal invitation to another."
He arose, seeing Ruth had risen and was kissing her cousins good-by.
Mrs. Lewis beamed with pleasure at his words.
"Now, won't you take something before you go?" she asked. "Ruth, I have the loveliest cakes."
"Oh, Jennie," remonstrated Ruth, as her cousin bustled off, "we have just dined."
"Let her enjoy herself," observed Louis; "she is never so happy as when she is feeding somebody."
The clink of glasses was soon heard, and Mrs. Lewis's rosy face appeared behind a tray with tiny glasses and a plate of rich, brown-looking little cakes.
"Jo, get the Kirsch. You must try one, Ruth; I made them myself."
When they had complimented her on her cakes and Louis had drunk to his next undertaking, suggested by Jo Lewis, the visitors departed.
They had been walking in almost total silence for a number of blocks, when Ruth turned suddenly to him and said with great earnestness,-- "Louis, what is the matter with you? For the last few days you have hardly spoken to me. Have I done anything to annoy you?"
"You? Why, no, not that I remember."
"Then, please, before we go off, be friendly with me again."
"I am afraid I am not of a very hilarious temperament."
"Still, you manage to talk to others."
"Have you cared very much who talked to you lately?"
Her cheek changed color in the starlight.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Anything or nothing."
Ruth looked at him haughtily.
"If nothing," he continued, observing her askance from lowered lids, "what I am about to say will be harmless. If anything, I still hope you will find it pardonable."
"What are you about to say?"
"It won't take long. Will you be my wife?"
And the stars still shone up in heaven!
Her face turned white as a Niphetos rose.
"Louis," she said finally and speaking with difficulty, "why do you ask me this?"
"Why does any man ask a woman to be his wife?"
"Generally because he loves her."
"Well?"
If he had spoken outright, she might have answered him; but the simple monosyllable, implying a world of restrained avowal, confronted her like a wall, before which she stood silent.
"Answer me, Ruth."
"If you mean it, Louis, I am very, very sorry."
"Why?"
"Because I can never be your wife."
"Why not?"
"I do not love you--like that."
Silence for half a block, the man's lips pressed hard together under his mustache, the girl's heart beating suffocatingly. When he spoke, his voice sounded oddly clear in the hushed night air.
"What do you mean by 'like that'?"
Her little hand was clinched tight as it lay on his arm. The perfect silence that followed the words of each made every movement significant.
"You know, --as a woman loves the man she would marry, not as she loves a brotherly cousin."
"The difference is not clear to me--but--how did you learn the difference?"
"How dare you?" she cried, flashing a pair of dark, wet eyes upon him.
"In such a case, 'I dare do all that may become a man.' Besides, even if there is a difference, I still ask you to be my wife. You would not regret it, Ruth, I think."
His voice was not soft, but there was a certain strained pleading about it that pained her inexpressibly.
"Louis," she said, with slow distinctness, her hand moving down until it touched his, "I never thought of this as a possibility. You know how much I have always loved you, dear; but oh, Louis, will it hurt you very much, will you forgive me if I have to say no, I cannot be your wife?"
"Wait. I wish you to consider this well. I am offering you all that I have in the world; it is not despicable. Your family, I know, would be pleased. Besides, it would be well for you--God knows, not because I am what I am, but for other reasons. Wait. I beg of you not to answer me till you have thought it over. You know me; I am no saint, but a man who would give his life for you. I ask of you nothing but the right to guard yours. Do not answer me now."
They had turned the corner of their block.
"I need no time," said Ruth, with a sad sob in her voice; "I cannot marry you, Louis. My answer would be the same to-morrow or at the end of all time, --I can never, never be your wife."
"It is then as I feared, --anything."
The girl's bowed head was the only answer to his bitter words.
"Well," he said, with a hard laugh, "that ends it, then. Don't let it bother you. Your answer has put it entirely from my mind. I should be pleased if you would forget it as readily as I shall. I hardly think we shall meet in the morning. I am going down to the club now. Good-by; enjoy yourself."
He held out his hand carelessly; Ruth carried it in both hers to her lips.
Being at the gate, he lifted his hat with a smile and walked away. Ruth did not smile; neither did Arnold when he had turned from her.
