Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. ’ ‘I do not tell you why,’ the lady uttered flatly. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. Never again to be alone! To fit herself into this man's life as a hand into a glove; to use all her skill to force him into the position of depending upon her utterly; to be the spark to the divine fire! He should have his book, even if it had to be written with her heart's blood. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. So long as she stood beside him, the Hand would not prevail. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. Still, I am curious. She met him by the dugout after the game.
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