"I am going to send for Breen to-morrow, Ruth," her father had
said as he kissed her good-night. "There are some things I want to
talk over with him, and then I want to thank him for what he did
for me. He's a man, every inch of him; I haven't told him so yet,
--not to his face,--but I will to-morrow. Fine fellow is Breen;
blood will always tell in the end, my daughter, and he's got the
best in the country in his veins. Looks more like his father every
day he lives."
She had hardly slept all night, thinking of the pleasure in store
for her. She had dressed herself, too, in her most becoming
breakfast gown--one she had worn when Jack first arrived at
Corklesville, and which he said reminded him of a picture he had
seen as a boy. There were pink rosebuds woven in its soft texture,
and the wide peach-blossom ribbon that bound her dainty waist
contrasted so delightfully, as he had timidly hinted, with the
tones of her hair and cheeks.
It was the puffy, bespectacled little doctor who shut out the
light.
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