"Before you go, bring me the bottle of pineapple rum I opened yesterday. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. He was instantly overpowered, and stretched upon the ground. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon.
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