‘You will release me at once, imbecile. He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers. \" She said. “The fool I have been!” he cried; and now speech was coming to him. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. He took up his hat and went. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. Nothing would induce me to marry you, or any man at present. It’s a thing that’s happened to you. . ’ She halted, her pistol still held firm and straight, both hands gripping it, her expressive features at once determined and uncertain. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. “I wonder,” she said, “how much you care.
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