"I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. Then he put the paper by. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. No, not one little bit. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. Were Captain Darrell to offer you his hand, would you accept it?" "Your impertinence deserves very different treatment, Sir," said Winifred; "but, to put an end to this annoyance, I will tell you—I would not. ‘Was this when Nicholas commended you to this Abbess?’ ‘But, yes.
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