Miss Benson occasionally thought—­and what she thought she was in the habit of saying—­that Jemima might have come herself to announce such an event to old friends; but Mr. Benson decidedly vindicated her from any charge of neglect, by expressing his strong conviction that to her they owed Mr. Farquhar’s calls—­his all but out-spoken offers of service—­his quiet, steady interest in Leonard; and, moreover (repeating the conversation he had had with her in the street, the first time they met after the disclosure), Mr. Benson told his sister how glad he was to find that, with all the warmth of her impetuous disposition hurrying her on to rebellion against her father, she was now attaining to that just self-control which can distinguish between mere wishes and true reasons—­that she could abstain from coming to see Ruth while she would do but little good, reserving herself for some great occasion or strong emergency.

Ruth said nothing, but she yearned all the more in silence to see Jemima.  In her recollection of that fearful interview with Mr. Bradshaw, which haunted her yet, sleeping or waking, she was painfully conscious that she had not thanked Jemima for her generous, loving advocacy; it had passed unregarded at the time in intensity of agony—­but now she recollected that by no word, or tone, or touch, had she given any sign of gratitude.  Mr. Benson had never told her of his meeting with Jemima; so it seemed as if there were no hope of any future opportunity for it is strange how two households, rent apart by some dissension, can go through life, their parallel existences running side by side, yet never touching each other, near neighbours as they are, habitual and familiar guests as they may have been.

Ruth’s only point of hope was Leonard.  She was weary of looking for work and employment, which everywhere seemed held above her reach.  She was not impatient of this but she was very, very sorry.  She felt within her such capability, and all ignored her, and passed her by on the other side.  But she saw some progress in Leonard.  Not that he could continue to have the happy development, and genial ripening, which other boys have; leaping from childhood to boyhood, and thence to youth, with glad bounds, and unconsciously enjoying every age.  At present there was no harmony in Leonard’s character; he was as full of thought and self-consciousness as many men, planning his actions long beforehand, so as to avoid what he dreaded, and what she could not yet give him strength to face, coward as she was herself, and shrinking from hard remarks.  Yet Leonard was regaining some of his lost tenderness towards his mother; when they were alone he would throw himself on her neck and smother her with kisses, without any apparent cause for such a passionate impulse.  If any one was by, his manner was cold and reserved.  The hopeful parts of his character were the determination evident in him to be a “law unto himself,” and the serious thought which he gave to the formation