Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. . Manned by a couple of watermen, who rowed with great swiftness, this wherry dashed through the current in the track of the fugitive, of whom it was evidently in pursuit, and upon whom it perceptibly gained. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. In the middle there was a gate. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. “It’s—private.
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