“Poor little tired heart,” said Clemence, commiseratingly, “it is now at rest.  But, Ruth, you must not allow these recollections to sadden you.  The little bound boy had not much to brighten his dreary life, and he knew not what it was to possess the buoyant hopefulness of childhood.  Sorrow had made him wise beyond his years.  Its weight crushed him down like a bruised lily.  The Good Shepherd listened to his pitiful supplications, and he is now safe in the fold above.  I don’t want your life to be one of gloom, my little adopted sister.  I have tried to make you feel happy, but I fear I am but dull company for a little girl.”

“You are the best, the very best,” persisted the little devotee, with worshipping eyes.  “I would like to be always near you, and it is only the thought that I am a burden that clouds my face with one shade of care.”

“How often have I told you, Ruth,” returned Clemence, gravely, “not to disturb your mind with such fancies?  It displeases me to have you talk upon these subjects, that a little girl ought not to think of at all.  I have never told you of your obligations, and I do not wish it to form a topic of conversation between us.  I want your love and obedience, and that is all that a little girl like you can give.  You have not added greatly to my trials, and as yet I have experienced few inconveniences from having another to provide for.  God has raised up a kind friend for us in Mrs. Hardyng, and we will not question His wisdom who has made us what we are, but strive always to remember in whose hands our future is placed.”

A look of pain flitted over the child’s open countenance, and a tear trembled upon the silken lashes.

“Have I offended you?” she whispered, creeping closer.  “I only wanted to tell you what was in my heart.  I don’t want to hide anything from you.”

“You have done quite right,” said Clemence, embracing her; “run and play, now, dear; a race will do you good and dry these tear-drops.”

She kissed the little one and pushed her gently away; then leaned her head upon her hand in the old attitude of weariness, and watched her until the slight form of the child was lost to view among the trees.

Little Ruth’s remarks had disturbed her.  There was too much foundation in their present circumstances for anxiety.  Still there was one drop of comfort in the midst of her trials.  The young teacher knew that time had dissipated the cloud of suspicion and distrust that had hung over her for so long, and which had been created by the basest envy.  The School Committee had lately tendered her again her old position, which she had declined with thanks.  She was too weak to labor now, either with hands or brain.  What did this strange lassitude, this very weariness of spirit, betoken?

The sad-browed dreamer knew but too well the end of all this; though, whatever it might be, it was surely for the best, or it would not be suffered.