If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. The gentleman with the red beard will relieve you of your prisoner. S. Later on I could scarcely have forgiven you.
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