Mr. Bradshaw looked up.  “Why, Mary!” said he, “is not that Mrs. Denbigh’s name?”

“Yes, papa,” replied Mary eagerly; “and I know two other Ruths; there’s Ruth Brown here, and Ruth Macartney at Eccleston.”

“And I have an aunt called Ruth, Mr. Donne!  I don’t think your observation holds good.  Besides my daughters’ governess, I know three other Ruths.”

“Oh!  I have no doubt I was wrong.  It was just a speech of which one perceives the folly the moment it is made.”

But, secretly, he rejoiced with a fierce joy over the success of his device.  Elizabeth came to summon Mary.

Ruth was glad when she got into the open air, and away from the house.  Two hours were gone and over.  Two out of a day, a day and a half—­for it might be late on Monday morning before the Eccleston party returned.

She felt weak and trembling in body, but strong in power over herself.  They had left the house in good time for church, so they needed not to hurry; and they went leisurely along the road, now and then passing some country person whom they knew, and with whom they exchanged a kindly, placid greeting.  But presently, to Ruth’s dismay, she heard a step behind, coming at a rapid pace, a peculiar clank of rather high-heeled boots, which gave a springy sound to the walk, that she had known well long ago.  It was like a nightmare, where the evil dreaded is never avoided, never completely shunned, but is by one’s side at the very moment of triumph in escape.  There he was by her side; and there was still a quarter of a mile intervening between her and the church:  but even yet she trusted that he had not recognised her.

“I have changed my mind, you see,” said he quietly.  “I have some curiosity to see the architecture of the church; some of these old country churches have singular bits about them.  Mr. Bradshaw kindly directed me part of the way; but I was so much puzzled by ‘turns to the right’ and ‘turns to the left,’ that I was quite glad to espy your party.”

That speech required no positive answer of any kind; and no answer did it receive.  He had not expected a reply.  He knew, if she were Ruth, she could not answer any indifferent words of his; and her silence made him more certain of her identity with the lady by his side.

“The scenery here is of a kind new to me; neither grand, wild, nor yet marked by high cultivation; and yet it has great charms.  It reminds me of some part of Wales.”  He breathed deeply, and then added, “You have been in Wales, I believe?”

He spoke low; almost in a whisper.  The little church-bell began to call the lagging people with its quick, sharp summons.  Ruth writhed in body and spirit, but struggled on.  The church-door would be gained at last; and in that holy place she would find peace.

He repeated in a louder tone, so as to compel an answer in order to conceal her agitation from the girls—­

“Have you never been in Wales?” He used “never” instead of “ever,” and laid the emphasis on that word, in order to mark his meaning to Ruth, and Ruth only.  But he drove her to bay.