Too late now. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. . All the talk in the world would not describe Ruth. “It rests with them by the nature of things. "Gracious Heavens! this is more wonderful than all the rest," cried the carpenter, rubbing his eyes. The cheating of the boys in the stores ceased. She came to adore them. Fate! You are so frank so splendid! “I’m taking this calmly now,” he said, almost as if he apologized, “because I’m a little stunned.
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