drag herself so far as the Chapel-house, yet felt her worn and weary heart stirred with a sharp pang of sympathy, and a very present remembrance of the time when she too was young, and saw the life-breath quiver out of her child, now an angel in that heaven which felt more like home to the desolate old creature than this empty earth.  To all such, when Leonard was better, Ruth went, and thanked them from her heart.  She and the old cripple sat hand in hand over the scanty fire on the hearth of the latter, while she told in solemn, broken, homely words, how her child sickened and died.  Tears fell like rain down Ruth’s cheeks; but those of the old woman were dry.  All tears had been wept out of her long ago, and now she sat patient and quiet, waiting for death.  But after this Ruth “clave unto her,” and the two were henceforward a pair of friends.  Mr. Farquhar was only included in the general gratitude which she felt towards all who had been kind to her boy.

The winter passed away in deep peace after the storms of the autumn, yet every now and then a feeling of insecurity made Ruth shake for an instant.  Those wild autumnal storms had torn aside the quiet flowers and herbage that had gathered over the wreck of her early life, and shown her that all deeds, however hidden and long passed by, have their eternal consequences.  She turned sick and faint whenever Mr. Donne’s name was casually mentioned.  No one saw it; but she felt the miserable stop in her heart’s beating, and wished that she could prevent it by any exercise of self-command.  She had never named his identity with Mr. Bellingham, nor had she spoken about the seaside interview.  Deep shame made her silent and reserved on all her life before Leonard’s birth; from that time she rose again in her self-respect, and spoke as openly as a child (when need was) of all occurrences which had taken place since then; except that she could not, and would not, tell of this mocking echo, this haunting phantom, this past, that would not rest in its grave.  The very circumstance that it was stalking abroad in the world, and might reappear at any moment, made her a coward:  she trembled away from contemplating what the reality had been; only, she clung more faithfully than before to the thought of the great God, who was a rock in the dreary land, where no shadow was.

Autumn and winter, with their lowering skies, were less dreary than the woeful, desolate feelings that shed a gloom on Jemima.  She found too late that she had considered Mr. Farquhar so securely her own for so long a time, that her heart refused to recognize him as lost to her, unless her reason went through the same weary, convincing, miserable evidence day after day, and hour after hour.  He never spoke to her now, except from common civility.  He never cared for her contradictions; he never tried, with patient perseverance, to bring her over to his opinions; he never used the wonted wiles (so tenderly remembered now they had no existence but in memory) to bring