“They won’t let you have your flowers, I’m afraid,” said Miss Benson.  “Doctors so often object to the smell.”

“No; perhaps not,” said Ruth hurriedly.  “I did not think of it.  I will only keep this one rose.  Here, Leonard darling!” She gave the rest to him.  It was her farewell; for having now no veil to hide her emotion, she summoned all her bravery for one parting smile, and, smiling, turned away.  But she gave one look back from the street, just from the last point at which the door could be seen, and, catching a glimpse of Leonard standing foremost on the step, she ran back, and he met her half-way, and mother and child spoke never a word in that close embrace.

“Now, Leonard,” said Miss Faith, “be a brave boy.  I feel sure she will come back to us before very long.”

But she was very near crying herself; and she would have given way, I believe, if she had not found the wholesome outlet of scolding Sally, for expressing just the same opinion respecting Ruth’s proceedings as she herself had done not two hours before.  Taking what her brother had said to her as a text, she delivered such a lecture to Sally on want of faith that she was astonished at herself, and so much affected by what she had said that she had to shut the door of communication between the kitchen and the parlour pretty hastily, in order to prevent Sally’s threatened reply from weakening her belief in the righteousness of what Ruth had done.  Her words had gone beyond her conviction.

Evening after evening Mr. Benson went forth to gain news of Ruth; and night after night he returned with good tidings.  The fever, it is true, raged; but no plague came nigh her.  He said her face was ever calm and bright, except when clouded by sorrow as she gave the accounts of the deaths which occurred in spite of every care.  He said that he had never seen her face so fair and gentle as it was now, when she was living in the midst of disease and woe.

One evening Leonard (for they had grown bolder as to the infection) accompanied him to the street on which the hospital abutted.  Mr. Benson left him there, and told him to return home; but the boy lingered, attracted by the crowd that had gathered, and were gazing up intently towards the lighted windows of the hospital.  There was nothing beyond that to be seen; but the greater part of these poor people had friends or relations in that palace of Death.  Leonard stood and listened.  At first their talk consisted of vague and exaggerated accounts (if such could be exaggerated) of the horrors of the fever.  Then they spoke of Ruth—­of his mother; and Leonard held his breath to hear.

“They say she has been a great sinner, and that this is her penance, quoth one.  And as Leonard gasped, before rushing forward to give the speaker straight the lie, an old man spoke—­

“Such a one as her has never been a great sinner; nor does she do her work as a penance, but for the love of God, and of the blessed Jesus.  She will be in the light of God’s countenance when you and I will be standing afar off.  I tell you, man, when my poor wench died, as no one would come near, her head lay at that hour on this woman’s sweet breast.  I could fell you,” the old man went on, lifting his shaking arm, “for calling that woman a great sinner.  The blessing of them who were ready to perish is upon her.”