THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
panion to these white women who called themselves lost. She could not understand what that word meant unless it was that they could not find their way back home.
Four days dragged themselves by. There was scarce an hour in which Ruth did not think of her Irishman. Oh, he would not forsake her; he would find her. But he must hurry! hurry! Her whimsical blue-eyed Irishman, tender and thoughtful and kind! What if he did lack polish? His mind was crystal and his heart was gold; and he wore his cynicism as a chestnut wears its mistletoe, a false growth grafted upon him without his leave; whom children loved and old men grew fond of. No, he would not forsake her.
