” “And you?” asked David Courtlaw. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. He pulled away. The Ragged Edge. After debating with himself whether he should further seek an interview, which, though, now in his power, was so sedulously shunned by the other party, he decided in the negative; and contenting himself with writing upon a slip of paper the hasty words,—"You are known by the villagers,—be upon your guard,"—he gave it to the ostler, with instructions to deliver it instantly to the owner of the horse he pointed out, and pursued his course. Anna tore it open and passed it to Courtlaw. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. "You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment.
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