Nor can we blame her. When your cheeks are twin roses; your hair black as a crow's wing and fine as silk; and your teeth--not one missing--so many seed pearls peeping from pomegranate lips; when your blood goes skipping and bubbling through your veins; when at night you sleep like a baby, and at morn you spring from your bed in the joy of another day; when there are two strong brown hands and two strong arms, and a great, loving, honest heart every bit your own; and when, too, there are crisp autumn afternoons to come, with gold and brown for a carpet, and long winter evenings, the fire-light dancing on the overhead rafters; and 'way--'way--beyond this--somewhere in the far future there rises a slender spire holding a chime of bells, and beneath it a deep-toned organ--when this, I say, is, or will be, your own--the gold of the Indies is but so much tinkling brass, and Cleopatra's diadem a mere bauble with which to quiet a child. It was not until he was nearing Corklesville that the sense of the money really came to him. He knew what it would mean to Ruth and what her eyes would hold of gladness and relief. Suddenly there sprang to his lips an unbidden laugh, a spontaneous overflow from the joy of his heart; the first he had uttered for days. Ruth should know first. He would take her in his arms and tell her to hunt in all his pockets, and then he would kiss her and place the package in her hands. And then the two would go to Corinne. It would be late, and she would be in bed, perhaps, but that made no difference. Ruth would steal noiselessly upstairs; past where Garry lay, the flowers heaped upon his coffin, and Corinne would learn the glad tidings before to-morrow's sun. At last the ghost which had haunted them all these days was banished; her child would be safe, and Corinne would no longer have to hide her head. Once more the precious package became the dominant thought. Ten bonds! More than enough! What would McGowan say now? What would his Uncle Arthur say? He slipped his hand under his coat fondling the wrapper, caressing it as a lover does a long-delayed letter, as a prisoner does a key which is to turn darkness into light, as a hunted man a weapon which may save his life. It did not take Jack many minutes we may be sure to hurry from the station to Ruth's home. There it all happened just as he had planned and schemed it should--even to the kiss and the hunting for the package of bonds, and Ruth's cry of joy, and the walk through the starlight night to Corinne's, and the finding her upstairs; except that the poor woman was not yet in bed. “Who gave it to you, Jack?” Corinne asked in a tired voice. “A friend of Uncle Peter's.” “You mean Mr. Grayson?” “Yes.” There was no outburst, no cry of gratitude, no flood of long-pent-up tears. The storm had so crushed and bruised this plant that many days must elapse before it would again lift its leaves from the mud.