For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. "They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged. I hadn’t heard of him before the trial. Just beyond there would be her heart's desire. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books.
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