Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. He drew out the check and the editorial letter. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. The aspect of the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple of Saint Giles's church, the precursor of the present structure, which was not erected till some fifteen years later. She dare not risk it.
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