Only a few weeks ago there was a bloody battle on the bridge there between the soldiery and the local police. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. His literary instincts were reviving. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. He looked at his friend. . “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. The tears flowed faster. .
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