and that it renders the disliker even more miserable, because more continually conscious than the object; but the growing evidences of Jemima’s feeling made Ruth very unhappy at times.  This very May, too, an idea had come into her mind, which she had tried to repress—­namely, that Mr. Farquhar was in love with her.  It annoyed her extremely; it made her reproach herself that she ever should think such a thing possible.  She tried to strangle the notion, to drown it, to starve it out by neglect—­its existence caused her such pain and distress.

The worst was, he had won Leonard’s heart, who was constantly seeking him out; or, when absent, talking about him.  The best was some journey connected with business, which would take him to the Continent for several weeks; and, during that time, surely this disagreeable fancy of his would die away, if untrue; and if true, some way would be opened by which she might put a stop to all increase of predilection on his part, and yet retain him as a friend for Leonard—­that darling for whom she was far-seeing and covetous, and miserly of every scrap of love and kindly regard.

Mr. Farquhar would not have been flattered, if he had known how much his departure contributed to Ruth’s rest of mind on the Saturday afternoon on which he set out on his journey.  It was a beautiful day; the sky of that intense quivering blue, which seemed as though you could look through it for ever, yet not reach the black, infinite space which is suggested as lying beyond.  Now and then, a thin, torn, vaporous cloud floated slowly within the vaulted depth; but the soft air that gently wafted it was not perceptible among the leaves on the trees, which did not even tremble.  Ruth sat at her work in the shadow formed by the old grey garden wall; Miss Benson and Sally—­the one in the parlour window-seat mending stockings, the other hard at work in her kitchen—­were both within talking distance, for it was weather for open doors and windows; but none of the three kept up any continued conversation; and in the intervals Ruth sang low a brooding song, such as she remembered her mother singing long ago.  Now and then she stopped to look at Leonard, who was labouring away with vehement energy at digging over a small plot of ground, where he meant to prick out some celery plants that had been given to him.  Ruth’s heart warmed at the earnest, spirited way in which he thrust his large spade deep down into the brown soil his ruddy face glowing, his curly hair wet with the exertion; and yet she sighed to think that the days were over when her deeds of skill could give him pleasure.  Now, his delight was in acting himself; last year, not fourteen months ago, he had watched her making a daisy-chain for him, as if he could not admire her cleverness enough; this year, this week, when she had been devoting every spare hour to the simple tailoring which she performed for her boy (she had always made every article he wore, and felt almost jealous of the employment), he had come to her with a wistful look, and asked when he might begin to have clothes made by a man?