What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. Missy is into the witchcraft stuff, Wicca, nothing bad or anything. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. The door to the apocalypse had opened! "Loves me?. You used to beg me for hours at a time to give it all up, never to go near the ‘Ambassador’s’ again.
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