‘Espéce de diable,’ she screamed. The one through which she had come and Gosse had entered behind her. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. " "Palliate them as you may," replied the widow, gravely, "they were faults; and as such, cannot be repaired by a greater wrong. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.
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