"My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. I was his wife. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. But beyond "amicable agreement in which mutual concessions are made," the word "compromise" was as blank as the Canton wall at night. The hurricane appeared to have raged in this quarter with tenfold fury. "Ruth!" She had gone to the door, aimlessly, without purpose. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other.
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