And this is not France, you understand. "First take the child," cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and clinging to the oar with a dying effort. His hand rested heavily and cruelly upon Ruth's shoulder. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. ‘What we have to find out is whether or not the wretched female is in fact Lord Charvill’s granddaughter.
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