He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. " "I hope you never may, my love," humbly acquiesced the carpenter. “I shall never marry,” said Ann Veronica, resolutely; “I’m not the sort. This is not the conduct of a jeune demoiselle.
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