his resignation.

At the fireside below sat Leonard and Ruth, not hand in hand, like
Isabel and her mother, yet conversing on the same theme as they.

Leonard had spent the day at the polls; his party had won an easy
victory; and, though not on the ticket, he was now awaiting a
telegraphic summons to the state capital. His fortunes were growing.
Yet that was not a thing to be wordy about, and now, when the murmur of
his voice continued so long and steadily that it found even the dulled
ear of the aged father in the upper room, that father knew what the
topic must be. On all other matters the son and brother had become more
silent than ever,--was being nicknamed far and near, flatteringly and
otherwise, for his reticence; but let Ruth sit down with him alone and
barely draw near this theme,--this wound,--and his speech bled from him
and would not be stanched.

"I can admit I have made the mistake of my life," he said, "but I cannot
and will not, even now, give up and say there is nothing to be saved out
of it. It's a mistake that has bound me to her, to you, to Godfrey, to
him, to all, and demands of me, pinioned and blindfolded as I am, every
effort I can make, every device I can contrive, to compel him to free
her and you and all of us from this torture.

"He shall not go on eating out our lives. I have dawdled with him
weakly, pitifully, but I did it in my hope to save him. I tried to save
him for his own sake, Ruth, truly,--as truly as for her sake and ours;
and I wanted to save his work with him,--his church, his and hers; so
much of it is hers. Oh, Ruth, I love that little bird-box, spite of all
its spunky beliefs and twittering complacencies. I wanted to save it and