‘Dieu du ciel, but answer me!’ Martha’s eyes were swimming again, and she reached out. 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. But it would be too risky. “I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water. Taking the opposite course from that which he had hitherto pursued when it has been necessary to attend him in his visits to the lower part of his premises, he struck into a narrow passage on the right, which he tracked till he came to a small door, like the approach to a vault. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Mr. Captain Kneebone! we must trouble you to accompany us.
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