to the trials which God sends—­and this is one of them.  Teach him not to look on a life of struggle, and perhaps of disappointment and incompleteness, as a sad and mournful end, but as the means permitted to the heroes and warriors in the army of Christ, by which to show their faithful following.  Tell him of the hard and thorny path which was trodden once by the bleeding feet of One—­Ruth! think of the Saviour’s life and cruel death, and of His divine faithfulness.  Oh, Ruth!” exclaimed he, “when I look and see what you may be—­what you must be to that boy, I cannot think how you could be coward enough, for a moment, to shrink from your work!  But we have all been cowards hitherto,” he added, in bitter self-accusation.

“God help us to be so no longer!”

Ruth sat very quiet.  Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she seemed lost in thought.  At length she rose up.

“Mr. Benson!” said she, standing before him, and propping herself by the table, as she was trembling sadly from weakness, “I mean to try very, very hard, to do my duty to Leonard—­and to God,” she added reverently.  “I am only afraid my faith may sometimes fail about Leonard——­”

“Ask, and it shall be given unto you.  That is no vain or untried promise, Ruth!”

She sat down again, unable longer to stand.  There was another long silence.

“I must never go to Mr. Bradshaw’s again,” she said at last, as if thinking aloud.

“No, Ruth, you shall not,” he answered.

“But I shall earn no money!” added she quickly, for she thought that he did not perceive the difficulty that was troubling her.

“You surely know, Ruth, that, while Faith and I have a roof to shelter us, or bread to eat, you and Leonard share it with us.”

“I know—­I know your most tender goodness,” said she, “but it ought not to be.”

“It must be at present,” he said, in a decided manner.  “Perhaps, before long you may have some employment; perhaps it may be some time before an opportunity occurs.”

“Hush,” said Ruth; “Leonard is moving about in the parlour.  I must go to him.”  But when she stood up, she turned so dizzy, and tottered so much, that she was glad to sit down again immediately.

“You must rest here.  I will go to him,” said Mr. Benson.  He left her; and when he was gone, she leaned her head on the back of the chair, and cried quietly and incessantly; but there was a more patient, hopeful, resolved feeling in the heart, which all along, through all the tears she shed, bore her onwards to higher thoughts, until at last she rose to prayers.