Upon a rustic seat the two rest. The grand panorama spread before them
charms the eye, and they feast upon the glorious scene. How blue the sea
appears, and the numerous sails are like splashes of white against the
deep background.

There lies Algiers in all her glory, modern structures almost side by
side with Mohammedan mosques, whose domes shine like great balls of gold
and whose minarets guard the sacred edifice like sentries thrown out in
the nature of defenses.

Who could gaze upon such a vision and not feel his heart stirred, must
indeed be dead to everything that appeals to the better senses.

John Craig, M.D., might ordinarily be set down as an enthusiastic lover
of nature, and such a scene when he first gazed upon it aroused the
deepest emotions in his artist heart; but strange to say he pays little
heed to what is before him now. It is what occupies the rustic seat in
common with John Craig that takes his whole attention.

How shall he say it. What words can he frame into an animated expression
of his feelings? It was all mapped out before, but the words have
utterly slipped his memory, as is always the case in such events.

He turns to Lady Ruth. Her hand is in her lap. He boldly reaches out and
takes it. There is only a feeble resistance. Their eyes meet, "Lady
Ruth, will you give me this hand?"

"You--I--what could you do with it?" she asks, turning rosy red.

"Well, to begin with--this," and he presses it passionately to his lips.