allow no one to interfere with what I choose to do with my own.’  And he looked so haughty and displeased, I durst say nothing at the time.  But when I told Thurstan, he was very grieved and angry; and said he had heard that our party were bribing, but that he never could have thought they would have tried to do it at his house.  Thurstan is very much out of spirits about this election altogether; and, indeed, it does make sad work up and down the town.  However, he sent back the watch, with a letter to Mr. Bradshaw; and Leonard was very good about it, so I gave him a taste of the new damson-preserve on his bread for supper.”

Although a stranger might have considered this letter wearisome, from the multiplicity of the details, Ruth craved greedily after more.  What had Mr. Donne said to Leonard?  Had Leonard liked his new acquaintance?  Were they likely to meet again?  After wondering and wondering over these points, Ruth composed herself by the hope that in a day or two she should hear again; and, to secure this end, she answered the letters by return of post.  That was on Thursday.  On Friday she had another letter, in a strange hand.  It was from Mr. Donne.  No name, no initials were given.  If it had fallen into another person’s hands, they could not have recognised the writer, nor guessed to whom it was sent.  It contained simply these words:—­

“For our child’s sake, and in his name, I summon you to appoint a place where I can speak, and you can listen, undisturbed.  The time must be on Sunday; the limit of distance may be the circumference of your power of walking.  My words may be commands, but my fond heart entreats.  More I shall not say now, but, remember! your boy’s welfare depends on your acceding to this request.  Address B. D., Post-Office, Eccleston.”

Ruth did not attempt to answer this letter till the last five minutes before the post went out.  She could not decide until forced to it.  Either way she dreaded.  She was very nearly leaving the letter altogether unanswered.  But suddenly she resolved she would know all, the best, the worst.  No cowardly dread of herself, or of others, should make her neglect aught that came to her in her child’s name.  She took up a pen and wrote—­

“The sands below the rocks, where we met you the other night.  Time, afternoon church.”

Sunday came.

“I shall not go to church this afternoon.  You know the way, of course; and I trust you to go steadily by yourselves.”

When they came to kiss her before leaving her, according to their fond wont, they were struck by the coldness of her face and lips.

“Are you not well, dear Mrs. Denbigh?  How cold you are!”

“Yes, darling!  I am well;” and tears sprang into her eyes as she looked at their anxious little faces.  “Go now, dears.  Five o’clock will soon be here, and then we will have tea.”

“And that will warm you!” said they, leaving the room.