"Hello, Kilday!" called Dr. Fenton from the road above. "Going
up-town? I'll give you a lift."
Sandy turned and looked up at the doctor impatiently. The presence of
other people in the world seemed an intrusion.
"I've been out to the Meeches' all afternoon," said the doctor,
wearily, mopping his face with a red-bordered handkerchief.
"Is Martha worse?" asked Sandy, in quick alarm.
"No, she's better," said the doctor, gruffly; "she died at four
o'clock."
CHAPTER XVIII
THE VICTIM
Some poet has described love as a little glow and a little shiver; to
Sandy it was more like a ravaging fire in his heart, which lighted up
a world of such unutterable bliss that he cheerfully added fresh fuel
to the flames that were consuming him. The one absorbing necessity of
his existence was to see Ruth daily, and the amount of strategy,
forethought, and subtilty with which he accomplished it argued well
for his future ability at the bar.
In the long hours of the night Wisdom urged prudence; she presented
all the facts in the case, and convinced him of his folly. But with
the dawn he threw discretion to the winds, and rushed valiantly
forward, leading a forlorn hope under cover of a little Platonic flag
of truce.
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