"He will live," answered Ruth. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son. And we won’t make it so. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. They talked for the better part of an hour, and at last walked together to the junction of highroad and the bridle-path.
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