l me?"

"I want to know, Ruth," I said, my voice trembling, "why you shun me,
dislike me, hate me so?"

CHAPTER IX

OMENS OF DARKNESS

Look here upon this picture, and on this;
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See what grace was seated on his brow;
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself.
An eye like Mars to threaten or command.
--_Hamlet_, Act III, Scene 3.

She looked up as if surprised at my question.

"Hate you, shun you, Roger," she repeated. "Whatever led you to ask
such a question?"

"How can I help asking it," I said, "when it is true? You never have a
word for me now. Your every thought is given to my brother. I suppose
it is because Roger is a boor, Roger is a clown, Roger is ugly."

"What can possess you to speak in such a way?" she said.

I knew I had spoken foolishly; but I could not help it. I was mad with
rage and jealousy. Having once begun to speak, all judgment and
discretion were gone. I was determined to know my fate, determined to
know if she loved my brother Wilfred.

"Possess me!" I answered. "Well, I hardly know; but this I know. Ever
since my prig of a brother has come home from Oxford with his affected
smile and flattering ways, Ruth has had no ears or eyes for any one
else."

"Still I fail to understand you," she said.

"I do not doubt," I replied, savagely, "that I am too ignorant a clown
to make my meaning clear. Were Wilfred speaking, you would understand
him. He would put his thoughts in such poetic language, and speak in
such cooing tones, that little Ruth would be made to think as he
thought, and feel as he felt; but I--I am nobody."

"Roger," she said, "you are not kind, you are not speaking like my big
brother."

"No, I cannot," I said, "I do not feel that I am your brother. What
kind feeling have you towards me? Not a jot. It is Wilfred, Wilfred,
ever Wilfred."

She walked on by my side in silence, I feeling that I had been a brute,
a savage. What right had I to speak so roughly, and thus to annoy her?
I looked down at her face, and I saw that her eyes were filled with
tears and her lips trembled. For a moment my jealousy and anger were
gone.

"Forgive me, sister Ruth," I said, "I ought not to speak so. Try and
forget what I have said. See, we are in Honeysuckle-lane, and here is
some."

I picked a sprig of honeysuckle as I spoke and gave it to her, which
she received kindly. This emboldened me.