“No, Faith!  I am quite well, only rather out of spirits, and wanting to talk to you to cheer me.”

Miss Faith sat down, straight, sitting bolt-upright to listen the better.

“I don’t know how, but the real story about Ruth is found out.”

“Oh, Thurstan!” exclaimed Miss Benson, turning quite white.

For a moment, neither of them said another word.  Then she went on—­

“Does Mr. Bradshaw know?”

“Yes!  He sent for me, and told me.”

“Does Ruth know that it has all come out?”

“Yes.  And Leonard knows.”

“How?  Who told him?”

“I do not know.  I have asked no questions.  But of course it was his mother.”

“She was very foolish and cruel, then,” said Miss Benson, her eyes blazing, and her lips trembling, at the thought of the suffering her darling boy must have gone through.

“I think she was wise.  I am sure it was not cruel.  He must have soon known that there was some mystery, and it was better that it should be told him openly and quietly by his mother than by a stranger.”

“How could she tell him quietly?” asked Miss Benson still indignant.

“Well! perhaps I used the wrong word—­of course no one was by—­and I don’t suppose even they themselves could now tell how it was told, or in what spirit it was borne.”

Miss Benson was silent again.

“Was Mr. Bradshaw very angry?”

“Yes, very; and justly so.  I did very wrong in making that false statement at first.”

“No!  I am sure you did not,” said Miss Faith.  “Ruth has had some years of peace, in which to grow stronger and wiser, so that she can bear her shame now in a way she never could have done at first.”

“All the same it was wrong in me to do what I did.”

“I did it too, as much or more than you.  And I don’t think it wrong.  I’m certain it was quite right, and I would do just the same again.”

“Perhaps it has not done you the harm it has done me.”

“Nonsense!  Thurstan.  Don’t be morbid.  I’m sure you are as good—­and better than ever you were.”

“No, I am not.  I have got what you call morbid, just in consequence of the sophistry by which I persuaded myself that wrong could be right.  I torment myself.  I have lost my clear instincts of conscience.  Formerly, if I believed that such or such an action was according to the will of God, I went and did it, or at least I tried to do it, without thinking of consequences.  Now, I reason and weigh what will happen if I do so and so—­I grope where formerly I saw.  Oh, Faith! it is such a relief to me to have the truth known, that I am afraid I have not been sufficiently sympathising with Ruth.”

“Poor Ruth!” said Miss Benson.  “But at any rate our telling a lie has been the saving of her.  There is no fear of her going wrong now.”

“God’s omnipotence did not need our sin.”