Sc. 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 mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. CHAPTER XXX. ’ Quick anger flared, surpassing the fluttering hope. Mr. "Fear!" echoed Wild, in a terrible tone,—"fear! Repeat that word again, and nothing shall save you. Pity you aren’t under my command.
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