old clock on the staircase told its monotonous click-clack, in that soothing way which more marked the quiet of the house than disturbed with any sense of sound.  Leonard still slept that renovating slumber, almost in her arms, far from that fatal pursuing sea, with its human form of cruelty.  The dream was a vision; the reality which prompted the dream was over and past—­Leonard was safe—­she was safe; all this loosened the frozen springs, and they gushed forth in her heart, and her lips moved in accordance with her thoughts.

“What were you saying, my darling?” said Miss Benson, who caught sight of the motion, and fancied she was asking for something.  Miss Benson bent over the side of the bed on which Ruth lay, to catch the low tones of her voice.

“I only said,” replied Ruth timidly, “thank God!  I have so much to thank Him for you don’t know.”

“My dear, I am sure we have all of us cause to be thankful that our boy is spared.  See! he is wakening up; and we will have a cup of tea together.  Leonard strode on to perfect health; but he was made older in character and looks by his severe illness.  He grew tall and thin, and the lovely child was lost in the handsome boy.  He began to wonder and to question.  Ruth mourned a little over the vanished babyhood, when she was all in all, and over the childhood, whose petals had fallen away; it seemed as though two of her children were gone—­the one an infant, the other a bright, thoughtless darling; and she wished that they could have remained quick in her memory for ever, instead of being absorbed in loving pride for the present boy.  But these were only fanciful regrets, flitting like shadows across a mirror.  Peace and thankfulness were once more the atmosphere of her mind; nor was her unconsciousness disturbed by any suspicion of Mr. Farquhar’s increasing approbation and admiration, which he was diligently nursing up into love for her.  She knew that he had sent—­she did not know how often he had brought—­fruit for the convalescent Leonard.  She heard, on her return from her daily employment, that Mr. Farquhar had bought a little gentle pony on which Leonard, weak as he was, might ride.  To confess the truth, her maternal pride was such that she thought that all kindness shown to such a boy as Leonard was but natural; she believed him to be

“A child whom all that locked on, loved.”

As in truth he was; and the proof of this was daily shown in many kind inquiries, and many thoughtful little offerings, besides Mr. Farquhar’s.  The poor (warm and kind of heart to all sorrow common to humanity) were touched with pity for the young widow, whose only child lay ill, and nigh unto death.  They brought what they could—­a fresh egg, when eggs were scarce—­a few ripe pears that grew on the sunniest side of the humblest cottage, where the fruit was regarded as a source of income—­a call of inquiry, and a prayer that God would spare the child, from an old crippled woman, who could scarcely