Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. "Again," cried Jonathan, sternly: "beware!" "What!" vociferated Trenchard. Ruth loved him. He had not proceeded far when he was alarmed by the tramp of a horse, which seemed to be rapidly approaching, and he had scarcely time to leap the hedge and conceal himself behind a tree, when a tall man, enveloped in an ample cloak, with his hat pulled over his brows, rode by at full speed. "If you two loved each other," went on the doctor, "there would be something to stand on—a reason why for this madness. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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