She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. Sheila had dropped glaring hints that she knew, which Chuck tacitly acknowledged with a lowered gaze. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. A strange betrothal!—the primal idea of which was escape! The girl, intent upon abrogating for ever all legal rights of the father in the daughter, of rendering innocuous the thing she had now named the Terror: the boy, seeking selfcrucifixion in expiation of his transgression, changing a peccadillo into damnation! It was easy for Ruth to surrender to the idea, for she believed she was loved; and in gratitude it was already her determination to give this boy her heart's blood, drop by drop, if he wanted it. "Allow me to assist you, Sir James," said Hogarth. " "That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow, shuddering.
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