Now it was too late; more than a week had passed, and no excuse for going was possible.
It was not until the morning after Peter's departure,--she, sitting alone, sad and silent in her chair at the head of her father's breakfast table (Miss Felicia, as was her custom, had her coffee in her room), that the first ray of light had crept into her troubled brain.

It had only shone a brief moment,--and had then gone out in darkness, but it held a certain promise for better days, and on this she had built her hopes.
"I am going to send for Breen to-morrow, Ruth," her father had said as he kissed her good-night.

"There are some things I want to talk over with him, and then I want to thank him for what he did for me.

He's a man, every inch of him; I haven't told him so yet,--not to his face,--but I will to-morrow.

Fine fellow is Breen; blood will always tell in the end, my daughter, and he's got the best in the country in his veins.