THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"Do you wish to marry this man? Are you acting of your own free will?" asked the missioner, as a final attempt to get at the truth.
Ruth stared out of the window at the patch of brilliant sunshine in the middle of the red dust of the compound. The pause was so long that the missioner began to fidget, and William's freckles grew deeper and deeper in hue. Why didn't she answer?
"Ruth?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon! Yes, I wish to marry Mr. Grogan."
With a sigh the missioner opened his book to the marriage ritual. Ruth spoke her affirmatives in a colorless tone. William had to clear his throat a dozen times.
"Now," said the missioner, smiling, after the gold band had been clumsily slipped over Ruth's finger, "we are all Americans. Why not have your Christmas dinner with us?"
"Thank you," said Ruth; "but we have planned to have our dinner at the Raffles." She wanted no curious strangers about. Her head was on fire, and she wanted to be alone, alone.
William's face expressed his disappointment. Strangers would have been most welcome to him. Now that the ceremony was over, a fear laid hold of him. Had he done right? Ought he not to have waited until Ruth had had a few days' rest?
"You'd better watch her," whispered the mis-
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