Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. She saw his face change, how he regretted. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe.
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