"Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. No; she'd never go back. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. In and out of consciousness she sailed, hearing voices from memory that she could not distinguish from reality. " "You're not going to betray me!" cried Jack, in alarm. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know.
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