"It is addressed to my mother," he added, as his eye glanced rapidly over it, "and by my father. " "What is it?" asked the poor woman. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. .
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