"Get up, mother," cried Jack; "do not kneel to him. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. I cannot protect you. Sometimes I think I’ll miss them and I start to cry, but I’m ready to have a life of my own. It doesn’t seem to matter. Give this fellow the slip, if you can, Jack. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest.
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