“I could not tell him just then.  I durst not speak for fear of breaking down; but if I have done right, it was all owing to you and Mr. Benson.  Oh!  I wish I had said how the thought first came into my head from seeing the things Mr. Benson has done so quietly ever since the fever first came amongst us.  I could not speak; and it seemed as if I was taking those praises to myself, when all the time I was feeling how little I deserved them—­how it was all owing to you.”

“Under God, Ruth,” said Miss Benson, speaking through her tears.

“Oh! think there is nothing humbles one so much as undue praise.  While he was reading that letter, I could not help feeling how many things I have done wrong!  Could he know of—­of what I have been?” asked she, dropping her voice very low.

“Yes!” said Jemima, “he knew—­everybody in Eccleston did know—­but the remembrance of those days is swept away.  Miss Benson,” she continued, for she was anxious to turn the subject, “you must be on my side, and persuade Ruth to come to Abermouth for a few weeks.  I want her and Leonard both to come.”

“I’m afraid my brother will think that Leonard is missing his lessons sadly.  Just of late we could not wonder that the poor child’s heart was so full; but he must make haste, and get on all the more for his idleness.”  Miss Benson piqued herself on being a disciplinarian.

“Oh, as for lessons, Walter is so very anxious that you should give way to his superior wisdom, Ruth, and let Leonard go to school.  He will send him to any school you fix upon, according to the mode of life you plan for him.”

“I have no plan,” said Ruth.  “I have no means of planning.  All I can do is to try and make him ready for anything.”

“Well,” said Jemima, “we must talk it over at Abermouth; for I am sure you won’t refuse to come, dearest, dear Ruth!  Think of the quiet, sunny days, and the still evenings, that we shall have together, with little Rosa to tumble about among the fallen leaves; and there’s Leonard to have his first sight of the sea.”

“I do think of it,” said Ruth, smiling at the happy picture Jemima drew.  And both smiling at the hopeful prospect before them, they parted—­never to meet again in life.

No sooner had Mrs. Farquhar gone than Sally burst in.

“Oh! dear, dear!” said she, looking around her.  “If I had but known that the rector was coming to call I’d ha’ put on the best covers, and the Sunday tablecloth!  You’re well enough,” continued she, surveying Ruth from head to foot; “you’re always trim and dainty in your gowns, though I reckon they cost but tuppence a yard, and you’ve a face to set ’em off; but as for you” (as she turned to Miss Benson), “I think you might ha’ had something better on than that old stuff, if it had only been to do credit to a parishioner like me, whom he has known ever sin’ my father was his clerk.”

“You forget, Sally, I had been making jelly all the morning.  How could I tell it was Mr. Grey when there was a knock at the door?” Miss Benson replied.