She took a deep breath. "Oh God!" exclaimed Jack, in a tone of the bitterest anguish. "Perhaps. . Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. 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. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. "But don't ever let me see them again.
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