After a little pause, they began to arrange the manner of her going, and to speak about the length of time that she might be absent on her temporary duties.  In talking of her return, they assumed it to be certain, although the exact time when was to them unknown, and would be dependent entirely on the duration of the fever; but not the less, in their secret hearts, did they feel where alone the issue lay.  Ruth was to communicate with Leonard and Miss Faith through Mr. Benson alone, who insisted on his determination to go every evening to the hospital to learn the proceedings of the day, and the state of Ruth’s health.

“It is not alone on your account, my dear!  There may be many sick people of whom, if I can give no other comfort, I can take intelligence to their friends.”

All was settled with grave composure; yet still Ruth lingered, as if nerving herself up for some effort.  At length she said, with a faint smile upon her pale face—­

“I believe I am a great coward.  I stand here talking because I dread to tell Leonard.”

“You must not think of it,” exclaimed he.  “Leave it to me.  It is sure to unnerve you.”

“I must think of it.  I shall have self-control enough in a minute to do it calmly—­to speak hopefully.  For only think,” continued she, smiling through the tears that would gather in her eyes, “what a comfort the remembrance of the last few words may be to the poor fellow, if——­” The words were choked, but she smiled bravely on.  “No!” said she, “that must be done; but perhaps you will spare me one thing—­will you tell Aunt Faith?  I suppose I am very weak, but, knowing that I must go, and not knowing what may be the end, I feel as if I could not bear to resist her entreaties just at last.  Will you tell her, sir, while I go to Leonard?”

Silently he consented, and the two rose up and came forth, calm and serene.  And calmly and gently did Ruth tell her boy of her purpose; not daring even to use any unaccustomed tenderness of voice or gesture, lest, by so doing, she should alarm him unnecessarily as to the result.  She spoke hopefully, and bade him be of good courage; and he caught her bravery, though his, poor boy, had root rather in his ignorance of the actual imminent danger than in her deep faith.  When he had gone down, Ruth began to arrange her dress.  When she came downstairs she went into the old familiar garden and gathered a nosegay of the last lingering autumn flowers—­a few roses and the like.

Mr. Benson had tutored his sister well; and, although Miss Faith’s face was swollen with crying, she spoke with almost exaggerated cheerfulness to Ruth.  Indeed, as they all stood at the front door, making-believe to have careless nothings to say, just as at an ordinary leave-taking, you would not have guessed the strained chords of feeling there were in each heart.  They lingered on, the last rays of the setting sun falling on the group.  Ruth once or twice had roused herself to the pitch of saying “Good-bye,” but when her eye fell on Leonard she was forced to hide the quivering of her lips, and conceal her trembling mouth amid the bunch of roses.