" "Then the sooner I'm off the better," cried Wood; "what's to pay, David?" "Don't affront me, Owen, by asking such a question," returned the landlord; "hadn't you better stop and finish the bottle?" "Not a drop more," replied Wood. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. " "It ought to be; it cost enough to get it here," said the Scot, ruefully. I could not hear his heart beat. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness. I’m rather scornful. Wood fancied he recognised. CHAPTER XII. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead.
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