That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Cathy's eyes widened, her cheeks expanding to a smile. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. "Most persons would have guessed my meaning. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. He spoke only when he saw the sing-song girl he wanted to buy. There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer.
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