He handed Ruth a letter. Shortly a man descended laboriously. And then! a garment that was conceivably a secondary skirt. "That's a good story, lad. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. ” He was silent for a moment or two. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. He turned me so that he could have a companion in his loneliness.
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