But when one of the physicians had died, in consequence of his attendance—­when the customary staff of matrons and nurses had been swept off in two days—­and the nurses belonging to the Infirmary had shrunk from being drafted into the pestilential fever-ward—­when high wages had failed to tempt any to what, in their panic, they considered as certain death—­when the doctors stood aghast at the swift mortality among the untended sufferers, who were dependent only on the care of the most ignorant hirelings, too brutal to recognize the solemnity of Death (all this had happened within a week from the first acknowledgment of the presence of the plague)—­Ruth came one day, with a quieter step than usual, into Mr. Benson’s study, and told him she wanted to speak to him for a few minutes.

“To be sure, my dear!  Sit down:”  said he; for she was standing and leaning her head against the chimney-piece, idly gazing into the fire.  She went on standing there, as if she had not heard his words; and it was a few moments before she began to speak.  Then she said—­

“I want to tell you, that I have been this morning and offered myself as matron to the fever-ward while it is so full.  They have accepted me; and I am going this evening.”

“Oh, Ruth!  I feared this; I saw your look this morning as we spoke of this terrible illness.”

“Why do you say ‘fear’, Mr. Benson?  You yourself have been with John Harrison, and old Betty, and many others, I dare say, of whom we have not heard.”

“But this is so different! in such poisoned air! among such malignant cases!  Have you thought and weighed it enough, Ruth?”

She was quite still for a moment, but her eyes grew full of tears.  At last she said, very softly, with a kind of still solemnity—­

“Yes!  I have thought, and I have weighed.  But through the very midst of all my fears and thoughts I have felt that I must go.”

The remembrance of Leonard was present in both their minds; but for a few moments longer they neither of them spoke.  Then Ruth said—­

“I believe I have no fear.  That is a great preservative, they say.  At any rate, if I have a little natural shrinking, it is quite gone when I remember that I am in God’s hands!  Oh, Mr. Benson,” continued she, breaking out into the irrepressible tears—­“Leonard, Leonard!”

And now it was his turn to speak out the brave words of faith.

“Poor, poor mother!” said he.  “But be of good heart.  He, too, is in God’s hands.  Think what a flash of time only will separate you from him, if you should die in this work!”

“But he—­but he—­it will belong to him, Mr. Benson!  He will be alone!”

“No, Ruth, he will not.  God and all good men will watch over him.  But if you cannot still this agony of fear as to what will become of him, you ought not to go.  Such tremulous passion will predispose you to take the fever.”

“I will not be afraid,” she replied, lifting up her face, over which a bright light shone, as of God’s radiance.  “I am not afraid for myself.  I will not be so for my darling.”