“Perhaps it is,” said her brother thoughtfully, but no longer clearly or decidedly; and so the conversation dropped.

Ruth moved the bed-curtain aside, in her soft manner, when Miss Benson re-entered the room; she did not speak, but she looked at her as if she wished her to come near.  Miss Benson went and stood by her.  Ruth took her hand in hers and kissed it; as if fatigued even by this slight movement, she fell asleep.  Miss Benson took up her work, and thought over her brother’s speeches.  She was not convinced, but she was softened and bewildered.

CHAPTER XII

LOSING SIGHT OF THE WELSH MOUNTAINS

Miss Benson continued in an undecided state of mind for the two next days; but on the third, as they sat at breakfast, she began to speak to her brother.

“That young creature’s name is Ruth Hilton.”

“Indeed! how did you find it out?”

“From herself, of course.  She is much stronger.  I slept with her last night, and I was aware she was awake long before I liked to speak, but at last I began.  I don’t know what I said, or how it went on, but I think it was a little relief to her to tell me something about herself.  She sobbed and cried herself to sleep; I think she is asleep now.

“Tell me what she said about herself.”

“Oh, it was really very little; it was evidently a most painful subject.  She is an orphan, without brother or sister, and with a guardian, whom, I think she said, she never saw but once.  He apprenticed her (after her father’s death) to a dressmaker.  This Mr. Bellingham got acquainted with her, and they used to meet on Sunday afternoons.  One day they were late, lingering on the road, when the dressmaker came up by accident.  She seems to have been very angry, and not unnaturally so.  The girl took fright at her threats, and the lover persuaded her to go off with him to London, there and then.  Last May, I think it was.  That’s all.”

“Did she express any sorrow for her error?”

“No, not in words; but her voice was broken with sobs, though she tried to make it steady.  After a while she began to talk about her baby, but shyly, and with much hesitation.  She asked me how much I thought she could earn as a dressmaker, by working very, very hard; and that brought us round to her child.  I thought of what you had said, Thurstan, and I tried to speak to her as you wished me.  I am not sure if it was right; I am doubtful in my own mind still.”

“Don’t be doubtful, Faith!  Dear Faith, I thank you for your kindness.”

“There is really nothing to thank me for.  It is almost impossible to help being kind to her; there is something so meek and gentle about her, so patient, and so grateful!”

“What does she think of doing?”

“Poor child! she thinks of taking lodgings—­very cheap ones, she says; there she means to work night and day to earn enough for her child.  For she said to me; with such pretty earnestness, ’It must never know want, whatever I do.  I have deserved suffering, but it will be such a little innocent darling!’ Her utmost earnings would not be more than seven or eight shillings a week, I’m afraid; and then she is so young and so pretty!”