When the antagonism between the sisters broke into open hostility, it was nearly always she who managed to soothe them and restore a temporary semblance of peace--for beyond that no mortal power could go. She now prevailed upon the widow Broadnax to rise with her assistance, thus securing the keys, and when that lady was once on her feet she was easier to move, so that Ruth now led her to her place at the breakfast table without further trouble. There was, however, always more or less trouble about the place itself. It was but woman nature to feel it to be very hard for a whole sister to sit at the side of the table while a half sister sat at its head. The judge always did what he could to spare her feelings, and Miss Penelope's at the same time. He was a bachelor, and held women in the half-gallant, half-humorous regard which sets the bachelor apart from the married man, and places him at a disadvantage which he is commonly unaware of. The judge thought he understood the distinctively feminine weaknesses particularly well, and that he made uncommonly large allowance for them, as the bachelor always thinks and never does. And then when the quarrel reached a crisis, and he was entirely at the end of his resources for keeping the peace, he could always threaten to take to the woods, and that usually brought a short truce. "Ruth, my dear, what's all this about some stranger's bringing you home last night?" he inquired, taking his seat at the foot of the table. "Where were you, William? and what were you doing? You shouldn't have taken Ruth to such a place, or anywhere, if you couldn't take care of her," with unusual severity. Ruth sprang to William's defence. She said that it was not his fault. They were separated by the crowd. He had done his best, and all that any one could have done. "I made William take me. He didn't want to do it. And I am not sorry that I went, although I was so much frightened at the time. Without seeing it, no one can ever know what this strange and awful thing is like. No description can possibly describe it," she said, with darkening eyes and rising color. "A most shocking and improper scene," said William Pressley, as one who weighs his words. "A most shocking and improper scene." Ruth looked at him wonderingly. "Shocking--improper!" she faltered, perplexedly. "What a strange way to think of it. To me it was a great, grave, terrible spectacle. The awe of it overwhelmed me, alarmed as I was. Why, it was like seeing the Soul universal--bared and quivering." William Pressley said nothing more. He never discussed anything. Once he had spoken, the subject seemed to him finally disposed of. "Great Grief!" cried Miss Penelope in the blankest amazement and the greatest dismay. "For the land's sake!"