Then a pale, gentle-looking woman was seen moving softly about; and it was whispered that this was the mother come to nurse her child.  Everybody liked her, she was so sweet-looking, and gave so little trouble, and seemed so patient, and so thankful, for any inquiries about her daughter, whose illness it was understood, although its severity was mitigated, was likely to be long and tedious.  While all the feelings and thoughts relating to Jenny were predominant, Sunday arrived.  Mrs. Mason went the accustomed visit to her father’s, making some little show of apology to Mrs. Wood for leaving her and her daughter; the apprentices dispersed to the various friends with whom they were in the habit of spending the day; and Ruth went to St. Nicholas’, with a sorrowful heart, depressed on account of Jenny, and self-reproachful at having rashly undertaken what she had been unable to perform.

As she came out of church she was joined by Mr. Bellingham.  She had half hoped that he might have forgotten the arrangement, and yet she wished to relieve herself of her responsibility.  She knew his step behind her, and the contending feelings made her heart beat hard, and she longed to run away.

“Miss Hilton, I believe,” said he, overtaking her, and bowing forward, so as to catch a sight of her rose-red face.  “How is our little sailor going on?  Well, I trust, from the symptoms the other day.”

“I believe, sir, he is quite well now.  I am very sorry, but I have not been able to go and see him.  I am so sorry—­I could not help it.  But I have got one or two things through another person.  I have put them down on this slip of paper; and here is your purse, sir, for I am afraid I can do nothing more for him.  We have illness in the house, and it makes us very busy.”

Ruth had been so much accustomed to blame of late, that she almost anticipated some remonstrance or reproach now, for not having fulfilled her promise better.  She little guessed that Mr. Bellingham was far more busy trying to devise some excuse for meeting her again, during the silence that succeeded her speech, than displeased with her for not bringing a more particular account of the little boy, in whom he had ceased to feel any interest.

She repeated, after a minute’s pause—­

“I am very sorry I have done so little, sir.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure you have done all you could.  It was thoughtless in me to add to your engagements.”

“He is displeased with me,” thought Ruth, “for what he believes to have been neglect of the boy, whose life he risked his own to save.  If I told all, he would see that I could not do more; but I cannot tell him all the sorrows and worries that have taken up my time.”

“And yet I am tempted to give you another little commission, if it is not taking up too much of your time, and presuming too much on your good nature,” said he, a bright idea having just struck him.  “Mrs. Mason lives in Heneage Place, does not she?  My mother’s ancestors lived there; and once, when the house was being repaired, she took me in to show me the old place.  There was an old hunting-piece painted on a panel over one of the chimney-pieces; the figures were portraits of my ancestors.  I have often thought I should like to purchase it, if it still remained there.  Can you ascertain this for me, and bring me word next Sunday?”