Ruth smiled bitterly. "Yes."

The bar-keeper lingered, ostentatiously wiping a glass. But Ruth again
became abstracted in the mountain, and the barkeeper turned away.

How pure and clear that summit looked to him! how restful and steadfast
with serenity and calm! how unlike his own feverish, dusty, travel-worn
self! A week had elapsed since he had last looked upon it,--a week of
disappointment, of anxious fears, of doubts, of wild imaginings, of
utter helplessness. In his hopeless quest of the missing Mornie, he
had, in fancy, seen this serene eminence haunting his remorseful,
passion-stricken soul. And now, without a clew to guide him to her
unknown hiding-place, he was back again, to face the brother whom he had
deceived, with only the confession of his own weakness. Hard as it was
to lose forever the fierce, reproachful glances of the woman he loved,
it was still harder, to a man of Ruth's temperament, to look again
upon the face of the brother he feared. A hand laid upon his shoulder
startled him. It was the bar-keeper.

"If it's a fair question, Ruth Pinkney, I'd like to ask ye how long ye
kalkilate to hang around the Ferry to-day."

"Why?" demanded Ruth haughtily.

"Because, whatever you've been and done, I want ye to have a square
show. Ole Nixon has been cavoortin' round yer the last two days,
swearin' to kill you on sight for runnin' off with his darter. Sabe?
Now, let me ax ye two questions. FIRST, Are you heeled?"

Ruth responded to this dialectical inquiry affirmatively by putting his