CHAPTER LXXXV. TEA-TABLE TALK BETWEEN "THE WOODEN MAN" AND HIS SPOUSE--LETTER FROM "OUR JOHN" 378 CHAPTER LXXXVI. THE OLD LADY EXTINGUISHED IN A CONVERSATION WITH HER NEIGHBORS, WHO ANNOUNCE THE ASTONISHING FACT THAT 'FLOY' IS RUTH 383 CHAPTER LXXXVII. CONVERSATION BETWEEN RUTH'S FATHER AND MR. JONES REGARDING RUTH'S LITERARY DEBUT 388 CHAPTER LXXXVIII. INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE LITERARY BOOKSELLER AND MR. WALTER 391 CHAPTER LXXXIX. ARRIVAL OF MR. WALTER--BANK STOCK AND BANK CERTIFICATE 394 CHAPTER XC. THE LAST VISIT TO HARRY'S GRAVE 398 CHAPTER I. The old church clock rang solemnly out on the midnight air. Ruth started. For hours she had sat there, leaning her cheek upon her hand, and gazing through the open space between the rows of brick walls, upon the sparkling waters of the bay, glancing and quivering 'neath the moon-beams. The city's busy hum had long since died away; myriad restless eyes had closed in peaceful slumber; Ruth could not sleep. This was the last time she would sit at that little window. The morrow would find her in a home of her own. On the morrow Ruth would be a bride. Ruth was not sighing because she was about to leave her father's roof, (for her childhood had been anything but happy,) but she was vainly trying to look into a future, which God has mercifully veiled from curious eyes. Had that craving heart of her's at length found its ark of refuge? Would clouds or sunshine, joy or sorrow, tears or smiles, predominate in her future? Who could tell? The silent stars returned her no answer. Would a harsh word ever fall from lips which now breathed only love? Would the step whose lightest footfall now made her heart leap, ever sound in her ear like a death-knell? As time, with its ceaseless changes, rolled on, would love flee affrighted from the bent form, and silver locks, and faltering footstep? Was there no talisman to keep him? "Strange questions," were they, "for a young girl!" Ah, but Ruth could remember when she was no taller than a rosebush, how cravingly her little heart cried out for love! How a careless word, powerless to wound one less sensitive, would send her, weeping, to that little room for hours; and, young as she was, life's pains seemed already more to her than life's pleasures. Would it _always_ be so? Would she find more thorns than roses in her _future_ pathway?