To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. " "Ay, here I am," said Jack, throwing off his hat and wig, and marching towards the group, amongst whom there was a general movement of surprise at his audacity. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her. During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She had behaved in every way perfectly. They do a good job, huh?” He smiled at her. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home.
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