had been only occasional formerly, when his worse self predominated, had become permanent.  He looked restless and dissatisfied.  But he was very handsome still; and her quick eye had recognised, with a sort of strange pride, that the eyes and mouth were like Leonard’s.  Although perplexed by the straightforward, brave look she had sent right at him, he was not entirely baffled.  He thought this Mrs. Denbigh was certainly like poor Ruth; but this woman was far handsomer.  Her face was positively Greek; and then such a proud, superb turn of her head; quite queenly!  A governess in Mr. Bradshaw’s family!  Why, she might be a Percy or a Howard for the grandeur of her grace!  Poor Ruth!  This woman’s hair was darker, though; and she had less colour; although a more refined-looking person.  Poor Ruth! and, for the first time for several years, he wondered what had become of her; though, of course, there was but one thing that could have happened, and perhaps it was as well he did not know her end, for most likely it would have made him very uncomfortable.  He leant back in his chair, and, unobserved (for he would not have thought it gentlemanly to look so fixedly at her if she or any one noticed him), he put up his glass again.  She was speaking to one of her pupils, and did not see him.  By Jove! it must be she, though!  There were little dimples came out about the mouth as she spoke, just like those he used to admire so much in Ruth, and which he had never seen in any one else—­the sunshine without the positive movement of a smile.  The longer he looked the more he was convinced; and it was with a jerk that he recovered himself enough to answer Mr. Bradshaw’s question, whether he wished to go to church or not.

“Church?  How far—­a mile?  No; I think I shall perform my devotions at home to-day.”

He absolutely felt jealous when Mr. Hickson sprang up to open the door as Ruth and her pupils left the room.  He was pleased to feel jealous again.  He had been really afraid he was too much “used up” for such sensations.  But Hickson must keep his place.  What he was paid for was doing the talking to the electors, not paying attention to the ladles in their families.  Mr. Donne had noticed that Mr. Hickson had tried to be gallant to Miss Bradshaw; let him, if he liked; but let him beware how he behaved to this fair creature, Ruth or no Ruth.  It certainly was Ruth; only how the devil had she played her cards so well as to be the governess—­the respected governess, in such a family as Mr. Bradshaw’s?  Mr. Donne’s movements were evidently to be the guide of Mr. Hickson’s.  Mr. Bradshaw always disliked going to church, partly from principle, partly because he never could find the places in the Prayer-book.  Mr. Donne was in the drawing-room as Mary came down ready equipped; he was turning over the leaves of the large and handsome Bible.  Seeing Mary, he was struck with a new idea.

“How singular it is,” said he, “that the name of Ruth is so seldom chosen by those good people who go to the Bible before they christen their children!  It is a very pretty name, I think.”