CHAPTER XVIII. Your uncle—our uncle is with him. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. There was a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about this. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. ‘Of course the fellow has doubtless stayed put to wait for you,’ retorted Hilary. He grabbed her legs and threw the covers from the bed. I hope that you did not permit her to feed?” “But I did! I did!” She sobbed.
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