The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. Well, my friend found us out, and would give no quarter. “Oh, dammit!” he remarked, “dammit!” with great bitterness as he faced it. She had viewed them askance, and without exchanging ideas with any one else in the world about them. Running his hand hastily over it, he was startled to find it one complicated mass of bolts and bars.
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