Mrs. Ruth had lived in a world without caresses. You have a daughter, no? Madame Ibstock, I think. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. Lest the carpenter should be taxed with too much uxoriousness, it behoves us to ascertain whether the personal attractions of his helpmate would, in any degree, justify the devotion he displayed. "It's all up, master," groaned Ben, "nothin' short of a merracle can save us.
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