. ’ ‘Now then, missie,’ began the sergeant severely, ‘just you hand over that dagger. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. He said simply that he wanted her to live at home. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service.
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