"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. Who walked you home?\" Mike asked her, his voice tinged with jealousy, as she passed the garlic bread. “G. ’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. A strange betrothal!—the primal idea of which was escape! The girl, intent upon abrogating for ever all legal rights of the father in the daughter, of rendering innocuous the thing she had now named the Terror: the boy, seeking selfcrucifixion in expiation of his transgression, changing a peccadillo into damnation! It was easy for Ruth to surrender to the idea, for she believed she was loved; and in gratitude it was already her determination to give this boy her heart's blood, drop by drop, if he wanted it. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her.
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