“John, don’t!” she cried. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. Unwillingly he drew a little nearer, and became one of the group of loiterers about the entrance. Andrew's, the churchyard wall of St. “It is a delightful day for walking, but a great deal too cold to be standing on the pavement.
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