"Well, good night, Mr. ” With a murmured word of excuse she glided away, and Courtlaw, who had come with a mission which seemed to him to be one of life or death, was left to listen to the latest art jargon from Chelsea. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. “Ye Gods!” she said at last. " "Oh, no!" Ruth protested. "The key," replied the widow.
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