“I do not argue on Ruth’s case.  In that I have acknowledged my error.  I do not argue on any case.  I state my firm belief, that it is God’s will that we should not dare to trample any of His creatures down to the hopeless dust; that it is God’s will that the women who have fallen should be numbered among those who have broken hearts to be bound up, not cast aside as lost beyond recall.  If this be God’s will, as a thing of God it will stand; and He will open a way.”

“I should have attached much more importance to all your exhortation on this point if I could have respected your conduct in other matters.  As it is, when I see a man who has deluded himself into considering falsehood right, I am disinclined to take his opinion on subjects connected with morality; and I can no longer regard him as a fitting exponent of the will of God.  You perhaps understand what I mean, Mr. Benson.  I can no longer attend your chapel.”

If Mr. Benson had felt any hope of making Mr. Bradshaw’s obstinate mind receive the truth, that he acknowledged and repented of his connivance at the falsehood by means of which Ruth had been received into the Bradshaw family, this last sentence prevented his making the attempt.  He simply bowed and took his leave—­Mr. Bradshaw attending him to the door with formal ceremony.

He felt acutely the severance of the tie which Mr. Bradshaw had just announced to him.  He had experienced many mortifications in his intercourse with that gentleman, but they had fallen off from his meek spirit like drops of water from a bird’s plumage; and now he only remembered the acts of substantial kindness rendered (the ostentation all forgotten)—­many happy hours and pleasant evenings—­the children whom he had loved dearer than he thought till now—­the young people about whom he had cared, and whom he had striven to lead aright.  He was but a young man when Mr. Bradshaw first came to his chapel; they had grown old together; he had never recognised Mr. Bradshaw as an old familiar friend so completely as now when they were severed.

It was with a heavy heart that he opened his own door.  He went to his study immediately; he sat down to steady himself into his position.

How long he was there—­silent and alone—­reviewing his life—­confessing his sins—­he did not know; but he heard some unusual sound in the house that disturbed him—­roused him to present life.  A slow, languid step came along the passage to the front door—­the breathing was broken by many sighs.

Ruth’s hand was on the latch when Mr. Benson came out.  Her face was very white, except two red spots on each cheek—­her eyes were deep-sunk and hollow, but glittered with feverish lustre.  “Ruth!” exclaimed he.  She moved her lips, but her throat and mouth were too dry for her to speak.

“Where are you going?” asked he; for she had all her walking things on, yet trembled so even as she stood, that it was evident she could not walk far without falling.