It seemed to her that his death would only be the fitting punishment for the state of indifference towards him—­towards life and death—­towards all things earthly or divine, into which she had suffered herself to fall since her last interview with Mr. Donne.  She did not understand that such exhaustion is but the natural consequence of violent agitation and severe tension of feeling.  The only relief she experienced was in constantly serving Leonard; she had almost an animal’s jealousy lest any one should come between her and her young.  Mr. Benson saw this jealous suspicion, although he could hardly understand it; but he calmed his sister’s wonder and officious kindness, so that the two patiently and quietly provided all that Ruth might want, but did not interfere with her right to nurse Leonard.  But when he was recovering, Mr. Benson, with the slight tone of authority he knew how to assume when need was, bade Ruth lie down and take some rest, while his sister watched.  Ruth did not answer, but obeyed in a dull, weary kind of surprise at being so commanded.  She lay down by her child, gazing her fill at his calm slumber; and, as she gazed, her large white eye lids were softly pressed down as with a gentle, irresistible weight, and she fell asleep.  She dreamed that she was once more on the lonely shore, striving to carry away Leonard from some pursuer—­some human pursuer—­she knew he was human, and she knew who he was, although she dared not say his name even to herself, he seemed so close and present, gaining on her flying footsteps, rushing after her as with the sound of the roaring tide.  Her feet seemed heavy weights fixed to the ground; they would not move.  All at once, just near the shore, a great black whirlwind of waves clutched her back to her pursuer; she threw Leonard on to land, which was safety; but whether he reached it or no, or was swept back like her into a mysterious something too dreadful to be borne, she did not know, for the terror awakened her.  At first the dream seemed yet a reality, and she thought that the pursuer was couched even there, in that very room, and the great boom of the sea was still in her ears.  But as full consciousness returned, she saw herself safe in the dear old room—­the haven of rest—­the shelter from storms.  A bright fire was glowing in the little old-fashioned, cup-shaped grate, niched into a corner of the wall, and guarded on either side by whitewashed bricks, which served for bobs.  On one of these the kettle hummed and buzzed, within two points of boiling whenever she or Leonard required tea.  In her dream that home-like sound had been the roar of the relentless sea, creeping swiftly on to seize its prey.  Miss Benson sat by the fire, motionless and still; it was too dark to read any longer without a candle; but yet on the ceiling and upper part of the walls the golden light of the setting sun was slowly moving—­so slow, and yet a motion gives the feeling of rest to the weary yet more than perfect stillness.  The