But send me word. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "Sit down, fool!" "Jack," said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, "are these regrets for your past life sincere?" "Suppose them so," rejoined Jack, "what then?" "Nothing—nothing," stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. "I've not quite done yet," said Jonathan, as he joined the turnkeys. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. Ascertaining that it was Sheppard of whom this concourse was in pursuit, the two horsemen leapt the hedge, and were presently close upon him. He has had brain fever since, and, as you say, I am more like what you were then than you yourself are now. .
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