“I want to know more about this movement,” said Ann Veronica. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by emotion. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. He had looked at it before without comprehension. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. She was caught by an uncle, whose opinion she valued, making faces at Roddy because he had exulted at this. ‘Ain’t my place, I know that. Death belongs to God, young man.
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