“Remember that, always.  Remember that, when the time of trial comes—­and it seems a hard and cruel thing that you should be called reproachful names by men, and all for what was no fault of yours—­remember God’s pity and God’s justice; and, though my sin shall have made you an outcast in the world—­oh, my child, my child”—­(she felt him kiss her, as if mutually trying to comfort her—­it gave her strength to go on)—­“remember, darling of my heart, it is only your own sin that can make you an outcast from God.”

She grew so faint that her hold of him relaxed.  He looked up affrighted.  He brought her water—­he threw it over her; in his terror at the notion that she was going to die and leave him, he called her by every fond name, imploring her to open her eyes.

When she partially recovered he helped her to the bed, on which she lay still, wan, and death-like.  She almost hoped the swoon that hung around her might be Death, and in that imagination she opened her eyes to take a last look at her boy.  She saw him pale and terror-stricken; and pity for his affright roused her, and made her forget herself in the wish that he should not see her death, if she were indeed dying.

“Go to Aunt Faith!” whispered she; “I am weary, and want sleep.”

Leonard arose slowly and reluctantly.  She tried to smile upon him, that what she thought would be her last look might dwell in his remembrance as tender and strong; she watched him to the door; she saw him hesitate, and return to her.  He came back to her, and said in a timid, apprehensive tone,

“Mother—­will they speak to me about——­it?”

Ruth closed her eyes, that they might not express the agony she felt, like a sharp knife, at this question.  Leonard had asked it with a child’s desire of avoiding painful and mysterious topics,—­for no personal sense of shame as she understood it, shame beginning thus early, thus instantaneously.

“No,” she replied.  “You may be sure they will not.”

So he went.  But now she would have been thankful for the unconsciousness of fainting; that one little speech bore so much meaning to her hot, irritable brain.  Mr. and Miss Benson, all in their house, would never speak to the boy—­but in his home alone would he be safe from what he had already learned to dread.  Every form in which shame and opprobrium could overwhelm her darling haunted her.  She had been exercising strong self-control for his sake ever since she had met him at the house-door; there was now a reaction.  His presence had kept her mind on its perfect balance.  When that was withdrawn the effect of the strain of power was felt.  And athwart the fever-mists that arose to obscure her judgment, all sorts of will-o’-the-wisp plans flittered before her; tempting her to this and that course of action—­to anything rather than patient endurance—­to relieve her present state of misery by some sudden spasmodic effort, that took the semblance of being wise and right.  Gradually