I asked Cousin Ruth (as we used to call her, though the cousinship was distant) what was become of Uncle Ben, and how it was that we never heard anything of or from him now.  She replied that she hardly knew what to make of her grandfather’s manner of carrying on, for the last half-year or more.  He was apt to leave his home, she said, at any hour of the day or night; going none knew whither, and returning no one might say when.  And his dress, in her opinion, was enough to frighten a hodman, of a scavenger of the roads, instead of the decent suit of kersey, or of Sabbath doeskins, such as had won the respect and reverence of his fellow-townsmen.  But the worst of all things was, as she confessed with tears in her eyes, that the poor old gentleman had something weighing heavily on his mind.

“It will shorten his days, Cousin Ridd,” she said, for she never would call me Cousin John; “he has no enjoyment of anything that he eats or drinks, nor even in counting his money, as he used to do all Sunday; indeed no pleasure in anything, unless it be smoking his pipe, and thinking and staring at bits of brown stone, which he pulls, every now and then, out of his pockets.  And the business he used to take such pride in is now left almost entirely to the foreman, and to me.”

“And what will become of you, dear Ruth, if anything happens to the old man?”

“I am sure I know not,” she answered simply; “and I cannot bear to think of it.  It must depend, I suppose, upon dear grandfather’s pleasure about me.”

“It must rather depend,” said I, though having no business to say it, “upon your own good pleasure, Ruth; for all the world will pay court to you.”

“That is the very thing which I never could endure.  I have begged dear grandfather to leave no chance of that.  When he has threatened me with poverty, as he does sometimes, I have always met him truly, with the answer that I feared one thing a great deal worse than poverty; namely, to be an heiress.  But I cannot make him believe it.  Only think how strange, Cousin Ridd, I cannot make him believe it.”

“It is not strange at all,” I answered; “considering how he values money.  Neither would any one else believe you, except by looking into your true, and very pretty eyes, dear.”

Now I beg that no one will suspect for a single moment, either that I did not mean exactly what I said, or meant a single atom more, or would not have said the same, if Lorna had been standing by.  What I had always liked in Ruth, was the calm, straightforward gaze, and beauty of her large brown eyes.  Indeed I had spoken of them to Lorna, as the only ones to be compared (though not for more than a moment) to her own, for truth and light, but never for depth and softness.  But now the little maiden dropped them, and turned away, without reply.

“I will go and see to my horse,” I said; “the boy that has taken him seemed surprised at his having no horns on his forehead.  Perhaps he will lead him into the shop, and feed him upon broadcloth.”