What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. You never can tell. ’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,—as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter's daughter. Make haste!" Ruth hurried off to her own room. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. She felt that she became more familiar with the floor during the time that he stayed than with any particular person. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. ‘Come inside at once, child. .
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