For five months Ruth had been an inmate at Mrs. Mason’s; and such had been the regular order of the Sundays.  While the forewoman stayed there, it is true, she was ever ready to give Ruth the little variety of hearing of recreations in which she was no partaker; and, however tired Jenny might be at night, she had ever some sympathy to bestow on Ruth for the dull length of day she had passed.  After her departure, the monotonous idleness of the Sunday seemed worse to bear than the incessant labour of the work-days; until the time came when it seemed to be a recognised hope in her mind, that on Sunday afternoons she should see Mr. Bellingham, and hear a few words from him as from a friend who took an interest in her thoughts and proceedings during the past week.

Ruth’s mother had been the daughter of a poor curate in Norfolk, and, early left without parents or home, she was thankful to marry a respectable farmer a good deal older than herself.  After their marriage, however, everything seemed to go wrong.  Mrs. Hilton fell into a delicate state of health, and was unable to bestow the ever-watchful attention to domestic affairs so requisite in a farmer’s wife.  Her husband had a series of misfortunes—­of a more important kind than the death of a whole brood of turkeys from getting among the nettles, or the year of bad cheeses spoilt by a careless dairymaid—­which were the consequences (so the neighbours said) of Mr. Hilton’s mistake in marrying a delicate fine lady.  His crops failed; his horses died; his barn took fire:  in short, if he had been in any way a remarkable character, one might have supposed him to be the object of an avenging fate, so successive were the evils which pursued him; but, as he was only a somewhat commonplace farmer, I believe we must attribute his calamities to some want in his character of the one quality required to act as keystone to many excellences.  While his wife lived, all worldly misfortunes seemed as nothing to him; her strong sense and lively faculty of hope upheld him from despair; her sympathy was always ready, and the invalid’s room had an atmosphere of peace and encouragement which affected all who entered it.  But when Ruth was about twelve, one morning in the busy hay-time, Mrs. Hilton was left alone for some hours.  This had often happened before, nor had she seemed weaker than usual when they had gone forth to the field; but on their return, with merry voices, to fetch the dinner prepared for the haymakers, they found an unusual silence brooding over the house; no low voice called out gently to welcome them, and ask after the day’s progress; and, on entering the little parlour, which was called Mrs. Hilton’s, and was sacred to her, they found her lying dead on her accustomed sofa.  Quite calm and peaceful she lay; there had been no struggle at last; the struggle was for the survivors, and one sank under it.  Her husband did not make much ado at first—­at least, not in outward show; her memory seemed to keep in check all external violence