He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. She put her hand in his to be squeezed. She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat. At length she hit upon it: bubbling water. “I will be off,” she declared. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. He was—a millionaire. This last operation was so fatiguing, that for a short time he was obliged to pause to recover the use of his fingers. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection. What is it? Good God!” An unhappy little smile parted her lips.
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