Spurlock. “Do you believe me now?” She asked. "You are not. “Difficulties indeed. I’ve made an ally of her champion. Your father has forbidden you to go!’” “Well?” “She said, ‘I hate being horrid to you and father, but I feel it my duty to go to that ball!’” “Felt it her duty!” “‘Very well,’ I said, ‘then I wash my hands of the whole business. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. It appears that he was an unsuccessful admirer of the lady in question, and he admits that, under the influence of drink, he broke into her rooms, and there made a determined attempt at suicide. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it.
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