‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. 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. “Don’t come nearer!” she said. She could now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came upon the first page. Unfortunately, I have little detail of the circumstances which surrounded the birth of the girl, and her subsequent removal to France. I struck him across the face, jumped out and went back by train to Paris. “Mr. .
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