ly. My father told me, however, that Ruth Morton was
recovering, and was anxiously looking forward to the time when she
would be able to see me, and thank me for what I had done. In spite of
this, however, I did not ask many questions about her, and when, after
some days, I was pronounced well enough to see her, I cannot say I
looked forward with any pleasure to our meeting. Perhaps the reason
for this was that I hated to be thanked, or perhaps it was that I did
not like talking to girls, but be that as it may I was in no happy
frame of mind when my father led me to the room where she sat. I
remember that my blood rushed to my face as for the first time I saw
the one I had probably saved from death.

Perhaps my sadness foreboded the dark days that came afterwards.

CHAPTER V

THE SHAPING OF EVENTS

The brave man is not he who feels no fear;
For that were stupid and irrational;
But he whose noble soul its fear subdues
And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.
--_Joanna Baillie._

Ruth Morton was fourteen years of age, but looked far younger. To me
she appeared only a child of twelve. She was diminutive in stature,
and had an innocent childish face. I did not think her beautiful, and
yet I remember that her face was pleasing. I remember, too, that her
mouth looked very sensitive, and was indicative of a gentle nature; but
what struck me most were her eyes. They were large and grey, and
seemed to contain a world of meaning. Her hair was dark brown and fell
in heavy masses on her shoulders.

She looked at me curiously, as if striving to read my character, and
when my father mentioned my name she timidly held out her little hand.

"You must be friends," said he; "indeed, you must be brother and
sister, and I shall look to you, Roger, to take care of her."

I scarcely know now what I answered, but I daresay it was little to the
point. During the next few minutes I was very uncomfortable, for she
tried to thank me for saving her life.

As soon as I could I led her to talk of other matters, chiefly because
I knew not what to say or how to act.

By and by she spoke of her father's death, and what she felt when she
was informed she must leave her home and come to Trewinion Manor. She
told me, also, of her desire to come by boat, and how Mr. Inch, an old
trusted servant, had arranged to get a crew together, and how they had
sailed along in sight of the giant cliffs.

She