she thus doubted God, a shadow fell across her garments, on which her miserable eyes were bent.  She looked up.  The deformed gentleman she had twice before seen stood there.  He had been attracted by the noisy little crowd, and had questioned them in Welsh; but, not understanding enough of the language to comprehend their answers, he had obeyed their signs, and entered the gate to which they pointed.  There he saw the young girl whom he had noticed at first for her innocent beauty, and the second time for the idea he had gained respecting her situation; there he saw her, crouched up like some hunted creature, with a wild, scared look of despair, which almost made her lovely face seem fierce; he saw her dress soiled and dim, her bonnet crushed and battered with her tossings to and fro on the moorland bed; he saw the poor, lost wanderer, and when he saw her he had compassion on her.

There was some look of heavenly pity In his eyes, as gravely and sadly they met her upturned gaze, which touched her stony heart.  Still looking at him, as if drawing some good influence from him, she said low and mournfully, “He has left me, sir!—­sir, he has indeed!—­he has gone and left me!”

Before he could speak a word to comfort her, she had burst into the wildest, dreariest crying ever mortal cried.  The settled form of the event, when put into words, went sharp to her heart; her moans and sobs wrung his soul; but, as no speech of his could be heard, if he had been able to decide what best to say, he stood by her in apparent calmness, while she, wretched, wailed and uttered her woe.  But when she lay worn out, and stupefied into silence, she heard him say to himself in a low voice—­

“Oh, my God! for Christ’s sake, pity her!”

Ruth lifted up her eyes, and looked at him with a dim perception of the meaning of his words.  She regarded him fixedly in a dreamy way, as if they struck some chord in her heart, and she were listening to its echo; and so it was.  His pitiful look, or his words, reminded her of the childish days when she knelt at her mother’s knee; and she was only conscious of a straining, longing desire to recall it all.

He let her take her time, partly because he was powerfully affected himself by all the circumstances, and by the sad pale face upturned to his; and partly by an instinctive consciousness that the softest patience was required.  But suddenly she startled him, as she herself was startled into a keen sense of the suffering agony of the present; she sprang up and pushed him aside, and went rapidly towards the gate of the field.  He could not move as quickly as most men, but he put forth his utmost speed.  He followed across the road, on to the rocky common; but, as he went along, with his uncertain gait, in the dusk gloaming, he stumbled, and fell over some sharp projecting stone.  The acute pain which shot up his back forced a short cry from him; and, when bird and beast are hushed into rest and the stillness of night is over all,