Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. Why should I?” “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. “I’m being honest with you. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened.
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