Mr. Farquhar was silent.

“Send him to my house for the papers.  It will be a little necessity for him to have some regular exercise, and to face the world.  He must do it, sooner or later.”

The two gentlemen shook hands with each other warmly on parting; but no further allusion was made to either Ruth or Leonard.

So Leonard went for the papers.  Stealing along by back streets—­running with his head bent down—­his little heart panting with dread of being pointed out as his mother’s child—­so he used to come back, and run trembling to Sally, who would hush him up to her breast with many a rough-spoken word of pity and sympathy.  Mr. Farquhar tried to catch him to speak to him, and tame him, as it were; and, by-and-by, he contrived to interest him sufficiently to induce the boy to stay a little while in the house or stables, or garden.  But the race through the streets was always to be dreaded as the end of ever so pleasant a visit.  Mr. Farquhar kept up the intercourse with the Bensons which he had thus begun.  He persevered in paying calls—­quiet visits, where not much was said, political or local news talked about, and the same inquiries always made and answered as to the welfare of the two families, who were estranged from each other.  Mr. Farquhar’s reports were so little varied that Jemima grew anxious to know more particulars.

“Oh, Mr. Farquhar!” said she; “do you think they tell you the truth?  I wonder what Ruth can be doing to support herself and Leonard?  Nothing that you can hear of, you say; and, of course, one must not ask the downright question.  And yet I am sure they must be pinched in some way.  Do you think Leonard is stronger?”

“I am not sure.  He is growing fast; and such a blow as he has had will be certain to make him more thoughtful and full of care than most boys of his age; both these circumstances may make him thin and pale, which he certainly is.”

“Oh! how I wish I might go and see them all!  I could tell in a twinkling the real state of things.”  She spoke with a tinge of her old impatience.

“I will go again, and pay particular attention to anything you wish me to observe.  You see, of course, I feel a delicacy about asking any direct questions, or even alluding in any way to these late occurrences.”

“And you never see Ruth by any chance?”

“Never!”

They did not look at each other while this last question was asked and answered.

“I will take the paper to-morrow myself; it will be an excuse for calling again, and I will try to be very penetrating; but I have not much hope of success.

“Oh, thank you.  It is giving you a great deal of trouble; but you are very kind.”

“Kind, Jemima!” he repeated, in a tone which made her go very red and hot; “must I tell you how you can reward me?—­Will you call me Walter?—­say, thank you, Walter—­just for once.”

Jemima felt herself yielding to the voice and tone in which this was spoken; but her very consciousness of the depth of her love made her afraid of giving way, and anxious to be wooed, that she might be reinstated in her self-esteem.