ion of policemen is of much weight, for they are by no means a soft
or sentimental race of men."

"True, Ruth," returned her mother with a laugh. "After the scene
enacted in front of our windows the other day, when one of them had so
much trouble, and suffered such awful pommelling from the drunken
ruffian he took up, I am quite prepared to admit that policemen are
neither soft nor sentimental."

"Now, mother, I cannot rest," said Ruth, rising, "I will go and try to
quiet my feelings by writing an account of the whole affair to the Miss
Seawards."

"But you have not told me, child, who is the young man who behaved so
gallantly in rescuing little Billy and others?"

A deep blush overspread the girl's face as she looked down, and in a low
voice said, "It was our old friend Mr Dalton."

"Ruth!" exclaimed Mrs Dotropy, sharply, with a keen gaze into her
daughter's countenance, "you are in love with Mr Dalton!"

"No, mother, I am not," replied Ruth, with a decision of tone, and a
sudden flash of the mild sweet eyes, that revealed a little of the old
spirit of the De Tropys. "Surely I may be permitted to admire a brave
man without the charge of being in love with him!"

"Quite true, quite true, my love," replied the mother, sinking back into
her easy-chair. "You had better go now, as you suggest, and calm
yourself by writing to your friends."

Ruth hurried from the room; sought the seclusion of her own chamber;
flung herself into a chair, and put the question to herself, "_Am_ I in
love with Mr Dalton?"

It was a puzzling question; one that has been put full many a time in
this world's history without receiving a very definite or satisfactory
answer. In this particular case it seemed to be not less puzzling than
usual, for Ruth repeated it aloud more than once, "_Am_ I in love with
Mr Dalton?" without drawing from herself an audible reply.

She remained in the same attitude for a considerable time, with her
sweet little head on one side, and her tiny hands clasped loosely on her
lap--absorbed in meditation.

From this condition she at last roused herself to sit down before a
table with pen, ink, and paper. Then she went to work on a graphic
description of the wreck of the _Evening Star_,--in which, of course,
Mr Dalton unavoidably played a very prominent part.

Human nature is strangely and swiftly adaptable. Ruth's heart fluttered
with pleasure as she described the heroism of the young man, and next
momen