“I’ll call you Ruth then, Dusky Ruth, Ruth of the black, beautiful hair.”
“That is a nice-sounding name—I knew a deaf and dumb girl named Ruth; she went to Nottingham and married an organ-grinder—but I should like it for my name.”
“Then I give it to you.”
“Mine is so ugly.”
“What is it?”
Again the shaken head and the burning caress.
“Then you shall be Ruth; will you keep that name?”
“Yes, if you give me the name I will keep it for you.”
Time had indeed taken them by the forelock, and they looked upon a ruddled world.
“I stake my one talent,” he said jestingly, “and behold it returns me fortyfold; I feel like the boy who catches three mice with one piece of cheese.”