Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. "He hears me not! he's gone!" she added, as the door was opened and shut with violence; "something tells me I shall never see him again!" When her father, a moment afterwards, issued from the parlour to ascertain the cause of the noise, he found her seated on the stairs, in an agony of grief. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. Good night. They were bathing in the stream. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. "Why it is astonishing, certainly," remarked Kneebone, "to find any woman constant—especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the case.
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