"Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. ‘You would have a history of my life? Very well. “Alone, dear?” “Yes, aunt. Gregory B. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout.
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