“Oh, Miss Benson!  I never saw a christening; papa says I may go, if you think Mr. Benson and Mrs. Denbigh would not dislike it; and I will be quite quiet, and sit up behind the door, or anywhere; and that sweet little baby!  I should so like to see him christened; is he to be called Leonard, did you say?  After Mr. Denbigh, is it?”

“No—­not exactly,” said Miss Benson, rather discomfited.

“Was not Mr. Denbigh’s name Leonard, then?  Mamma thought it would be sure to be called after him, and so did I. But I may come to the christening, may I not, dear Miss Benson?”

Miss Benson gave her consent with a little inward reluctance.  Both her brother and Ruth shared in this feeling, although no one expressed it; and it was presently forgotten.

Jemima stood grave and quiet in the old-fashioned vestry adjoining the chapel, as they entered with steps subdued to slowness.  She thought Ruth looked so pale and awed because she was left a solitary parent; but Ruth came to the presence of God, as one who had gone astray, and doubted her own worthiness to be called His child; she came as a mother who had incurred a heavy responsibility, and who entreated His almighty aid to enable her to discharge it; full of passionate, yearning love which craved for more faith in God, to still her distrust and fear of the future that might hang over her darling.  When she thought of her boy, she sickened and trembled:  but when she heard of God’s loving-kindness, far beyond all tender mother’s love, she was hushed into peace and prayer.  There she stood, her fair pale cheek resting on her baby’s head, as he slumbered on her bosom; her eyes went slanting down under their half-closed white lids; but their gaze was not on the primitive cottage-like room, it was earnestly fixed on a dim mist, through which she fain would have seen the life that lay before her child; but the mist was still and dense, too thick a veil for anxious human love to penetrate.  The future was hid with God.

Mr. Benson stood right under the casement window that was placed high up in the room; he was almost in shade, except for one or two marked lights which fell on hair already silvery white; his voice was always low and musical when he spoke to few; it was too weak to speak so as to be heard by many without becoming harsh and strange; but now it filled the little room with a loving sound, like the stock-dove’s brooding murmur over her young.  He and Ruth forgot all in their earnestness of thought; and when he said “Let us pray,” and the little congregation knelt down you might have heard the baby’s faint breathing, scarcely sighing out upon the stillness, so absorbed were all in the solemnity.  But the prayer was long; thought followed thought, and fear crowded upon fear, and all were to be laid bare before God, and His aid and counsel asked.  Before the end, Sally had shuffled quietly out of the vestry into the green chapel-yard, upon which the door opened.