Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. “He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her.
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