"Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. He thought it best to let the matter drop. Torment! And so Ruth discovered him.
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