"He is dying?" whispered Ruth. " "Not now—not now!" she returned, with a shudder. She accepted his rejoinder with a brief nod. 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. She flew to the door, but returned the next minute, looking deeply disappointed, and bringing the intelligence that it was "only Mrs. "Sold again!" "If you don't get back quickly, Lucy," observed a bystander, "Jack Sheppard will be in the house before you. ” “Perhaps not,” she answered. She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life. ’ Still no response. Never had she seemed to him so much like Anna. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. The gentleman catched him i' th' fact, and we shut him up for safety i' that pris'n.
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