" "That was my doing, dearest," urged the carpenter; "I was afraid if you saw her that some such scene as this might occur. '—'No fear o' that,' thought I. So get up, and let's be off. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. She dismissed the idea of doing so. . I'll tell you something. It is true that I do not love Ruth; but I swear to you, before the God of my fathers, that she shall never know it!" "I'll be getting along. ‘But you do not understand, mon ami. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. .
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