It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. . He looked at her reproachfully. "What is it?" "Can't you see? Together, down there; you and I!… As my wife! Both of us, never to be lonely again!… Will you marry me, Ruth?" As many a wiser woman had done, Ruth mistook thrilling eagerness for love. "Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society.
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