Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. So it was with Gosse, who had wanted to marry her. There was a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about this. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. He smiled tenderly. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a powerful black horse harnessed to it.
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