He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ’ He bowed slightly, and indicated the house behind them with a wave of his hand. "This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred.
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