" "My mind's made up," rejoined Jack, coldly,—"we part to-night. I could not keep away any longer. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. ‘Gone!’ he said. “Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. I shall charge you five per cent. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Mr.
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