Upon leaning back, he commented, “You look so sad. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. There were two of them. For some time he could not stir, but felt sick and exhausted. One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. 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. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. It must be sent home this evening.
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