" "'Sblood!" cried Jackson, rising, "I can't sit still and hear Mr. Mr. ‘I can argue with him very well indeed. "What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. “I wondered. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. I must obey. good at that. I suppose if one were to love some one, one would feel doubtful. “To tell you the truth, it has seemed just lately as though we were becoming in some measure estranged.
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