of this law.  There was an inclination in him to reason, especially and principally with Mr. Benson, on the great questions of ethics which the majority of the world have settled long ago.  But I do not think he ever so argued with his mother.  Her lovely patience, and her humility, was earning its reward; and from her quiet piety, bearing sweetly the denial of her wishes—­the refusal of her begging—­the disgrace in which she lay, while others, less worthy were employed—­this, which perplexed him, and almost angered him at first, called out his reverence at last, and what she said he took for his law with proud humility; and thus softly she was leading him up to God.  His health was not strong; it was not likely to be.  He moaned and talked in his sleep, and his appetite was still variable, part of which might be owing to his preference of the hardest lessons to any outdoor exercise.  But this last unnatural symptom was vanishing before the assiduous kindness of Mr. Farquhar, and the quiet but firm desire of his mother.  Next to Ruth, Sally had perhaps the most influence over him; but he dearly loved both Mr. and Miss Benson; although he was reserved on this, as on every point not purely intellectual.  His was a hard childhood, and his mother felt that it was so.  Children bear any moderate degree of poverty and privation cheerfully; but, in addition to a good deal of this, Leonard had to bear a sense of disgrace attaching to him and to the creature he loved best; this it was that took out of him the buoyancy and natural gladness of youth, in a way which no scantiness of food or clothing or want of any outward comfort, could ever have done.

Two years had passed away—­two long, eventless years.  Something was now going to happen, which touched their hearts very nearly, though out of their sight and hearing.  Jemima was going to be married this August, and by-and-by the very day was fixed.  It was to be on the 14th.  On the evening of the 13th, Ruth was sitting alone in the parlour, idly gazing out on the darkening shadows in the little garden; her eyes kept filling with quiet tears, that rose, not for her own isolation from all that was going on of bustle and preparation for the morrow’s event, but because she had seen how Miss Benson had felt that she and her brother were left out from the gathering of old friends in the Bradshaw family.  As Ruth sat, suddenly she was aware of a figure by her; she started up, and in the gloom of the apartment she recognised Jemima.  In an instant they were in each other’s arms—­a long, fast embrace.

“Can you forgive me?” whispered Jemima in Ruth’s ear.

“Forgive you!  What do you mean?  What have I to forgive?  The question is, can I ever thank you as I long to do, if I could find words?”

“Oh, Ruth, how I hated you once!”

“It was all the more noble in you to stand by me as you did.  You must have hated me when you knew how I was deceiving you all!”