To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. Her fingers opened and the weapon fell from her nerveless grasp. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. ‘Brung the lantern, I did, and opened the door again in case you was ready. I hope that you did not permit her to feed?” “But I did! I did!” She sobbed. She had exposed the real story behind Peters tragedy, that dark, handsome Chuck had killed himself by leaving the car running in the garage, not from a “heart attack” as 111 claimed the party line.
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