Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. "I've often heard of a secret door in this room, though I never saw it. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. She made an abrupt personal appeal.
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