“She is no common person,” said Mr. Jones.  “Still she is too young to have the responsibility of such a serious case.  Have you any idea where his friends live, Mrs. Morgan?”

“Indeed and I have.  His mother, as haughty a lady as you would wish to see, came travelling through Wales last year; she stopped here, and, I warrant you, nothing was good enough for her; she was real quality.  She left some clothes and hooks behind her (for the maid was almost as fine as the mistress, and little thought of seeing after her lady’s clothes, having a taste for going to see scenery along with the man-servant), and we had several letters from her.  I have them locked in the drawers in the bar, where I keep such things.”

“Well, I should recommend your writing to the lady, and telling her her son’s state.”

“It would be a favour, Mr. Jones, if you would just write it yourself.  English writing comes so strange to my pen.”

The letter was written, and, in order to save time, Mr. Jones took it to the Llanglas post-office.

CHAPTER VII

THE CRISIS—–­WATCHING AND WAITING

Ruth put away every thought of the past or future; everything that could unfit her for the duties of the present.  Exceeding love supplied the place of experience.  She never left the room after the first day; she forced herself to eat, because his service needed her strength.  She did not indulge in any tears, because the weeping she longed for would make her less able to attend upon him.  She watched, and waited, and prayed; prayed with an utter forgetfulness of self, only with a consciousness that God was all-powerful, and that he, whom she loved so much, needed the aid of the Mighty One.

Day and night, the summer night, seemed merged into one.  She lost count of time in the hushed and darkened room.  One morning Mrs. Morgan beckoned her out; and she stole on tiptoe into the dazzling gallery, on one side of which the bedrooms opened.

“She’s come,” whispered Mrs. Morgan, looking very much excited, and forgetting that Ruth had never heard that Mrs. Bellingham had been summoned.

“Who is come?” asked Ruth.  The idea of Mrs. Mason flashed through her mind—­but with a more terrible, because a more vague, dread she heard that it was his mother; the mother of whom he had always spoken as a person whose opinion was to be regarded more than that of any other individual.

“What must I do?  Will she be angry with me?” said she, relapsing into her child-like dependence on others; and feeling that even Mrs. Morgan was some one to stand between her and Mrs. Bellingham.