‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it. “It was only yesterday I had your letter, and you never mentioned coming over. This is your room. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Consent to become my wife, and do not compel me to have recourse to violence to effect my purpose, and I will spare your son. "Mutual concessions," she added. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air.
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