'" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. Lucy entered the room. "He'll not trouble you on the liquor side, Mac. “I had lunch very late to-day, and I did not get home in time for dinner. But come in, dear. ‘How could you possibly know it?’ ‘I know it,’ Lucilla told him frostily, ‘because Dorothée told me that Madame Valade went off with Gerald positively purring in her ear—which is a thing he never does—and came back with him looking like the cat after cream. . But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “Reuben, come here. Will you come sensibly, or shall I carry you? You are mine!" Ruth's peculiar education had not vitiated the primitive senses; they were always on guard; and in a moment such as this they rushed instantly to the surface.
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