“It is a hateful story. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered. I suspect he has a bit of vanity. Here's the——" "Let me have one," cried a servant maid, running across the street, and in her haste forgetting to shut the door,—"here's the money. ’ Her lashes fluttered.
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