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But she must not laugh. 1. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. Wood could stand it no longer. She was instinctively aware of him as she had been of Julian. She spoke slowly. The aspect of the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple of Saint Giles's church, the precursor of the present structure, which was not erected till some fifteen years later. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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