" "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. “I will not be drawn into a conversation with Mr. Forthwith he presented his card. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension. In fine, to marry Ruth (if she would consent) as a punishment for what he had done! To whip his soul so long as he lived, but to let his body go free! To provide for her, to work and dream for her, to be tender and thoughtful and loyal, to shelter and guard her, to become accountable to God for her future. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. ” The strain in her face was visible as she tried to remember. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. “I will not have this slavery,” she said. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat.
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