You think it is blown by the wind, don't you ?" He looked at her with a grave smile, which did not enliven his thoughtful eyes, but gave an inexpressible sweetness to his face.
"I always thought it was the wind.

What is it ?" asked Ruth, innocently.
"Oh, the Welsh tell you that this flower is sacred to the fairies, and that it has the power of recognising them, and all spiritual beings who pass by, and that it bows in deference to them as they waft along.

Its Welsh name is Maneg Ellyllyn--the good people's glove; and hence, I imagine, our folk's-glove or fox-glove." "It's a very pretty fancy," said Ruth, much interested, and wishing that he would go on, without expecting her to reply.
But they were already at the wooden bridge; he led her across, and then, bowing his adieu, he had taken a different path even before Ruth had thanked him for his attention.
It was an adventure to tell Mr Bellingham, however; and it roused and amused him till dinner-time came, after which he sauntered forth with a cigar.
"Ruth," said he, when he returned, "I've seen your little hunchback.
He looks like Riquet-with-the-Tuft.

He's not a gentleman, though.

If it had not been for his deformity, I should not have made him out from your description; you called him a gentleman." "And don't you, sir ?" asked Ruth, surprised.
"Oh, no! he's regularly shabby and seedy in his appearance; lodging, too, the ostler told me, over that horrible candle and cheese shop, the smell of which is insufferable twenty yards off--no gentleman could endure it; he must be a traveller or artist, or something of that kind." "Did you see his face, sir ?" asked Ruth.
"No; but a man's back--his _tout ensemble_ has character enough in it to decide his rank." "His face was very singular; quite beautiful!" said she, softly; but the subject did not interest Mr Bellingham, and he let it drop..