"Very soon. As soon as I please, in fact."
"You take my advice and pin him to it. The sooner the better—eh, darling?"
Ruth rose wearily. "I see the pot boiling," she said with a glance at the fireplace, "and I have been on horseback since seven o'clock. Mother, won't you give me food, at least? I am hungry as a hunter."
—But this was very nearly a fib. She had been hungry enough, half an hour ago. Now her throat worked in disgust—not at the hovel and its poverty; for these were dear—but at the thought that thus for three years her dearest had been thinking of her. It had been the home of infinite mutual tolerance, of some affection—an affection not patent perhaps—and for years it had been all she owned. Now it lived on, but was poisoned; the atmosphere of the humble place was poisoned, and through her.
"Food?"—her mother rose. "Food be sure, and a bed, deary: for you'll be sleeping here, of course?"
"No. I go on to Port Nassau; and thence in a few days to a lodging up in the back country."
"Such a mare as she's ridin' too!" put in the old man.
"I wouldn' put up at Port Nassau, if I was you," said her mother pausing as she made ready to lift the pot-handle. "They won't know what you've told us, and they'll cast up the old shame on you."
"M'ria ha'n't talked so sensible for days," said the old man.
"Joy must ha' steadied her. . . . Clams, is it? Clams, I hope."
The meal over, Ruth took leave of them, reproaching herself for her haste, though troubled to have delayed the grooms so long.