Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. There was more shouting. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. " At luncheon, preoccupied in thought, Spurlock did not notice the pallor on Ruth's cheeks or the hunted look in her eyes. But not today. Wood trembled.
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