If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify. The night before they made McClintock's Ruth and Spurlock leaned over the rail, their shoulders touching. Wood's house was broken into and plundered. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. These were yarns! As he was about to slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock.
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