He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another. The strong fingers of one hand secured both her wrists there, and Melusine found herself chest to chest with him as he threw off his hat, and began to pat at her petticoat, searching for tell-tale protrusions. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. She held out the foil. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill.
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