On the way they had spoken but little.  He had asked after various members of his congregation, for he was a Dissenting minister in a country town, and she had answered; but they neither of them spoke of Ruth, though their minds were full of her.

Mrs. Hughes had tea ready for the traveller on her arrival.  Mr. Benson chafed a little internally at the leisurely way in which his sister sipped and sipped, and paused to tell him some trifling particular respecting home affairs, which she had forgotten before.

“Mr. Bradshaw has refused to let the children associate with the Dixons any longer, because one evening they played at acting charades.”

“Indeed!  A little more bread and butter, Faith?”

“Thank you; this Welsh air does make one hungry.  Mrs. Bradshaw is paying poor old Maggie’s rent, to save her from being sent into the workhouse.

“That’s right.  Won’t you have another cup of tea?”

“I have had two.  However, I think I’ll take another.”

Mr. Benson could not refrain from a little sigh as he poured it out.  He thought he had never seen his sister so deliberately hungry and thirsty before.  He did not guess that she was feeling the meal rather a respite from a distasteful interview, which she was aware was awaiting her at its conclusion.  But all things come to an end, and so did Miss Benson’s tea.

“Now, will you go and see her?”

“Yes.”

And so they went.  Mrs. Hughes had pinned up a piece of green calico, by way of a Venetian blind, to shut out the afternoon sun; and in the light thus shaded lay Ruth—­still, and wan, and white.  Even with her brother’s account of Ruth’s state, such death-like quietness startled Miss Benson—­startled her into pity for the poor lovely creature who lay thus stricken and felled.  When she saw her, she could no longer imagine her to be an impostor, or a hardened sinner; such prostration of woe belonged to neither.  Mr. Benson looked more at his sister’s face than at Ruth’s; he read her countenance as a book.

Mrs. Hughes stood by, crying.

Mr. Benson touched his sister, and they left the room together.

“Do you think she will live?” asked he.

“I cannot tell,” said Miss Benson, in a softened voice.  “But how young she looks! quite a child, poor creature!  When will the doctor come, Thurstan?  Tell me all about her; you have never told me the particulars.”

Mr. Benson might have said she had never cared to hear them before, and had rather avoided the subject; but he was too happy to see this awakening of interest in his sister’s warm heart to say anything in the least reproachful.  He told her the story as well as he could, and, as he felt it deeply, he told it with heart’s eloquence; and as he ended, and looked at her, there were tears in the eyes of both.

“And what does the doctor say?” asked she, after a pause.

“He insists upon quiet; he orders medicines and strong broth.  I cannot tell you all; Mrs. Hughes can.  She has been so truly good.  ‘Doing good, hoping for nothing again.’”