Stephen's.
It was a pleasant scene, restful and quiet, with a touch of life and a
hint of sober romance, when a barge swept down through the middle arch
of the bridge with a lugsail hoisted to a jury mast and a white-aproned
woman at the tiller. Dreamily I watched the craft creep by upon the
moving tide, noted the low freeboard, almost awash, the careful
helmswoman, and the dog on the forecastle yapping at the distant
shore--and thought of Ruth Bellingham.
What was there about this strange girl that had made so deep an
impression on me? That was the question that I propounded to myself, and
not for the first time. Of the fact itself there was no doubt. But what
was the explanation? Was it her unusual surroundings? Her occupation and
rather recondite learning? Her striking personality and exceptional good
looks? Or her connection with the dramatic mystery of her lost uncle?
I concluded that it was all of these. Everything connected with her was
unusual and arresting; but over and above these circumstances there was
a certain sympathy and personal affinity of which I was strongly
conscious and of which I dimly hoped that she, perhaps, was a little
conscious, too.
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