But she took her apron from her eyes, as soon as she became aware of what he was doing, and, still holding it midway in her hands, she looked at him indignantly, before she burst out—­

“And who are you, that think to pay for my kindness to her by money?  And I was not kind to you, my darling,” said she, passionately addressing the motionless, serene body—­“I was not kind to you.  I frabbed you, and plagued you from the first, my lamb!  I came and cut off your pretty locks in this very room—­I did—­and you said never an angry word to me;—­no! not then, nor many a time after, when I was very sharp and cross to you.—­No!  I never was kind to you, and I dunnot think the world was kind to you, my darling,—­but you are gone where the angels are very tender to such as you—­you are, my poor wench!” She bent down and kissed the lips, from whose marble, unyielding touch Mr. Donne recoiled, even in thought.

Just then Mr. Benson entered the room.  He had returned home before his sister, and came upstairs in search of Sally, to whom he wanted to speak on some subject relating to the funeral.  He bowed in recognition of Mr. Donne, whom he knew as the member for the town, and whose presence impressed him painfully, as his illness had been the proximate cause of Ruth’s death.  But he tried to check this feeling, as it was no fault of Mr. Donne’s.  Sally stole out of the room, to cry at leisure in her kitchen.

“I must apologise for being here,” said Mr. Donne.  “I was hardly conscious where your servant was leading me to, when she expressed her wish that I should walk upstairs.”

“It is a very common idea in this town, that it is a gratification to be asked to take a last look at the dead,” replied Mr. Benson.

“And in this case I am glad to have seen her once more,” said Mr. Donne.  “Poor Ruth!”

Mr. Benson glanced up at him at the last word.  How did he know her name?  To him she had only been Mrs. Denbigh.  But Mr. Donne had no idea that he was talking to one unaware of the connection that had formerly existed between them; and, though he would have preferred carrying on the conversation in a warmer room, yet, as Mr. Benson was still gazing at her with sad, lingering love, he went on—­

“I did not recognise her when she came to nurse me; I believe I was delirious.  My servant, who had known her long ago in Fordham, told me who she was.  I cannot tell you how I regret that she should have died in consequence of her love of me.”

Mr. Benson looked up at him again, a stern light filling his eyes as he did so.  He waited impatiently to hear more, either to quench or confirm his suspicions.  If she had not been lying there, very still and calm, he would have forced the words out of Mr. Donne, by some abrupt question.  As it was, he listened silently, his heart quick beating.

“I know that money is but a poor compensation—­is no remedy for this event, or for my youthful folly.”