“Damned Rascal!” he said. Either we go forth together, or they shall bury me. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. Capes bore a face of infinite perplexity. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery.
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