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He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Now when I tell you exactly the truth, you will also not believe me. "In case he should consent—" "He never will," interrupted Winifred. But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour—there had been natives to fetch and carry—she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness. I did not reckon upon—him. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.

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