Taber's room at once," Ruth ordered. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. The confirmed drunkard's mouth at length sets itself peculiarly; it becomes the mark by which thoughtful men know him. ‘More nor that. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. E. A glance sufficed to show the young man how matters stood. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday.
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