"I deny it--I deny it," retorted the doctor, fairly roused; "you own the house you live in, and have a handsome income, or _ought_ to have," said he, sneeringly, "at the rate you live. If you have brought up your daughter in extravagance, so much the worse for _her_; you and Ruth must settle that between you. I wash _my_ hands of her. I have no objection to take Harry's _children_, and try to bring them up in a sensible manner; but, in that case, I'll have none of the mother's interference. Then her hands will be free to earn her own living, and she's none too good for it, either. I don't believe in your doll-baby women; she's proud, you are all proud, all your family--that tells the whole story." This was rather plain Saxon, as the increased redness of Mr. Ellet's ears testified; but pecuniary considerations helped him to swallow the bitter pill without making a wry face. "I don't suppose Ruth could be induced to part with her children," said Mr. Ellet, meditatively. "Let her try to support them then, till she gets starved out," replied the doctor. "I suppose you know, if the mother's inability to maintain them is proved, the law obliges each of the grand-parents to take one." This was a new view of the case, and one which immediately put to flight any reluctance Mr. Ellet might have had to force Ruth to part with her children; and remarking that he thought upon reflection, that the children _would_ be better off with the doctor, Mr. Ellet took his leave. "I thought that stroke would tell," said the doctor, laughing, as Mr. Ellet closed the door. "Yes, you hit the right nail on the head that time," remarked the old lady; "but those children will be a sight of trouble. They never sat still five minutes at a time, since they were born; but I'll soon cure them of that. I'm determined Ruth shan't have them, if they fret me to fiddling-strings; but what an avaricious old man Mr. Ellet is. We ought to be thankful we have more of the gospel spirit. But the clock has struck nine, doctor. It is time to have prayers, and go to bed." CHAPTER XXXIV. The day was dark and gloomy. Incessant weeping and fasting had brought on one of Ruth's most violent attacks of nervous headache. Ah! where was the hand which had so lately charmed that pain away? where was the form that, with uplifted finger and tiptoe tread, hushed the slightest sound, excluded the torturing light, changed the heated pillow, and bathed the aching temples? Poor Ruth! nature had been tasked its utmost with sad memories and weary vigils, and she sank fainting to the floor. Well might the frightened children huddle breathless in the farther corner. The coffin, the shroud, and the grave, were all too fresh in their childish memory. Well might the tearful prayer go up to the only Friend they knew,--"Please God, don't take away our mamma, too." Ruth heard it not; well had she _never_ woke, but the bitter cup was not yet drained.