“Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it back sharply directly he returned it. Do you know, I envy you. Ruth loved him. He couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed himself. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. Marvel, in a tone intended to be consolatory.
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