" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. My first visit will be to you. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. ‘Sleeping like a baby, he is. " Sir Rowland's brow darkened. "I have one inquiry more to make of you, Sir," said the stranger, as soon as he had conquered his displeasure, "and I will then trouble you no further. ‘But you do not understand, mon ami.
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