The day before this examination was appointed to take place—the third of the prisoner's detention—an old man, respectably dressed, requested permission to see him. He said. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. E. She would meet him upon this ground: he should never be given the slightest hint that she was unhappy. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. We are nuns. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. “You’re splendid. “No,” she said at last; “I’m a human being—not a timid female. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. For all her begging she had been given the choice to go into the nunnery and “learn how to read scrolls with the rest of God’s Spinsters” by her father, but had quickly lost interest when presented with the idea of bearing babies.
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