Ruth and she should be brought into contact—­rather than that it should fall to her lot to entertain Ruth during any part of the evening.  It was months since Jemima had left off sitting in the schoolroom, as had been her wont during the first few years of Ruth’s governess-ship.  Now, each morning Miss Bradshaw seated herself at a little round table in the window, at her work, or at her writing; but, whether she sewed, or wrote, or read, Ruth felt that she was always watching—­watching.  At first Ruth had welcomed all these changes in habit and behaviour, as giving her a chance, she thought, by some patient waiting or some opportune show of enduring, constant love, to regain her lost friend’s regard; but by-and-by the icy chillness, immovable and grey, struck more to her heart than many sudden words of unkindness could have done.  They might be attributed to the hot impulses of a hasty temper—­to the vehement anger of an accuser; but this measured manner was the conscious result of some deep-seated feeling; this cold sternness befitted the calm implacability of some severe judge.  The watching, which Ruth felt was ever upon her, made her unconsciously shiver, as you would if you saw that the passionless eyes of the dead were visibly gazing upon you.  Her very being shrivelled and parched up in Jemima’s presence, as if blown upon by a bitter, keen east wind.

Jemima bent every power she possessed upon the one object of ascertaining what Ruth really was.  Sometimes the strain was very painful; the constant tension made her soul weary; and she moaned aloud, and upbraided circumstance (she dared not go higher—­to the Maker of circumstance) for having deprived her of her unsuspicious, happy ignorance.

Things were in this state when Mr. Richard Bradshaw came on his annual home visit.  He was to remain another year in London, and then to return and be admitted into the firm.  After he had been a week at home he grew tired of the monotonous regularity of his father’s household, and began to complain of it to Jemima.

“I wish Farquhar were at home.  Though he is such a stiff, quiet old fellow, his coming in in the evenings makes a change.  What has become of the Millses?  They used to drink tea with us sometimes, formerly.”

“Oh! papa and Mr. Mills took opposite sides at the election, and we have never visited since.  I don’t think they are any great loss.”  Anybody is a loss—­the stupidest bore that ever was would be a blessing, if he only would come in sometimes.”

“Mr. and Miss Benson have drunk tea here twice since you came.”

“Come, that’s capital!  Apropos of stupid bores, you talk of the Bensons.  I did not think you had so much discrimination, my little sister.”

Jemima looked up in surprise; and then reddened angrily.

“I never meant to say a word against Mr. or Miss Benson, and that you know quite well, Dick.”

“Never mind!  I won’t tell tales.  They are stupid old fogeys, but they are better than nobody, especially as that handsome governess of the girls always comes with them to be looked at.”