Mr. Benson had little thought for outward tokens of respect just then, nor had Mrs. Morgan much time to spare; but she smoothed her ruffled brow, and calmed her bustling manner, as soon as ever she saw who it was that awaited her; for Mr. Benson was well known in the village, where he had taken up his summer holiday among the mountains year after year, always a resident at the shop, and seldom spending a shilling at the inn.

Mrs. Morgan listened patiently—­for her.

“Mr. Jones will come this afternoon.  But it is a shame you should be troubled with such as her.  I had but little time yesterday, but I guessed there was something wrong, and Gwen has just been telling me her bed has not been slept in.  They were in a pretty hurry to be gone yesterday, for all that the gentleman was not fit to travel, to my way of thinking; indeed, William Wynn, the post-boy, said he was weary enough before he got to the end of that Yspytty road; and he thought they would have to rest there a day or two before they could go further than Pen tre Voelas.  Indeed, and anyhow, the servant is to follow them with the baggage this very morning; and now I remember, William Wynn said they would wait for her.  You’d better write a note, Mr. Benson, and tell them her state.”

It was sound, though unpalatable advice.  It came from one accustomed to bring excellent, if unrefined sense, to bear quickly upon any emergency, and to decide rapidly.  She was, in truth, so little accustomed to have her authority questioned, that, before Mr. Benson had made up his mind, she had produced paper, pens, and ink from the drawer in her bureau, placed them before him, and was going to leave the room.

“Leave the note on this shelf, and trust me that it goes by the maid.  The boy that drives her there in the car shall bring you an answer back.”  She was gone before he could rally his scattered senses enough to remember that he had not the least idea of the name of the person to whom he was to write.  The quiet leisure and peace of his little study at home favoured his habit of reverie and long deliberation, just as her position as mistress of an inn obliged her to quick, decisive ways.

Her advice, though good in some points, was unpalatable in others.  It was true that Ruth’s condition ought to be known by those who were her friends; but were these people to whom he was now going to write friends?  He knew there was a rich mother, and a handsome, elegant son; and he had also some idea of the circumstances which might a little extenuate their mode of quitting Ruth.  He had wide-enough sympathy to understand that it must have been a most painful position in which the mother had been placed, on finding herself under the same roof with a girl who was living with her son, as Ruth was.  And yet he did not like to apply to her; to write to the son was still more out of the question, as it seemed like asking him to return.  But through one or the other lay the only clue to her friends, who certainly ought to be made acquainted with her position.  At length he wrote—­