She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. CHAPTER XIX. . " "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. To be ill and helpless. She took his hand in hers. A brief calm succeeded. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour.
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