“Yes, yes!” said Miss Benson quickly.  “Did Sally send you, Ben?  Get the ostler’s lantern, and look out the luggage.”

CHAPTER XIII

THE DISSENTING MINISTER’S HOUSEHOLD

Miss Benson had resumed every morsel of the briskness which she had rather lost in the middle of the day; her foot was on her native stones, and a very rough set they were, and she was near her home and among known people.  Even Mr. Benson spoke very cheerfully to Ben, and made many inquiries of him respecting people whose names were strange to Ruth.  She was cold, and utterly weary.  She took Miss Benson’s offered arm, and could hardly drag herself as far as the little quiet street in which Mr. Benson’s house was situated.  The street was so quiet that their footsteps sounded like a loud disturbance, and announced their approach as effectually as the “trumpet’s lordly blare” did the coming of Abdallah.  A door flew open, and a lighted passage stood before them.  As soon as they had entered, a stout elderly servant emerged from behind the door, her face radiant with welcome.

“Eh, bless ye! are ye hack again?  I thought I should ha’ been lost without ye.”  She gave Mr. Benson a hearty shake of the hand, and kissed Miss Benson warmly; then, turning to Ruth, she said, in a loud whisper—­

“Who’s yon?”

Mr. Benson was silent, and walked a step onwards.  Miss Benson said boldly out—­

“The lady I named in my note, Sally—­Mrs. Denbigh, a distant relation.”

“Ay, but you said hoo was a widow.  Is this chit a widow?”

“Yes, this is Mrs. Denbigh,” answered Miss Benson.

“If I’d been her mother, I’d ha’ given her a lollypop instead on a husband.  Hoo looks fitter for it.”

“Hush!  Sally, Sally!  Look, there’s your master trying to move that heavy box.”  Miss Benson calculated well when she called Sally’s attention to her master; for it was believed by every one, and by Sally herself, that his deformity was owing to a fall he had had when he was scarcely more than a baby, and intrusted to her care—­a little nurse-girl, as she then was, not many years older than himself.  For years the poor girl had cried herself to sleep on her pallet bed, moaning over the blight her carelessness had brought upon her darling; nor was this self-reproach diminished by the forgiveness of the gentle mother, from whom Thurstan Benson derived so much of his character.  The way in which comfort stole into Sally’s heart was in the gradually-formed resolution that she would never leave him nor forsake him, but serve him faithfully all her life long; and she had kept to her word.  She loved Miss Benson, but she almost worshipped the brother.  The reverence for him was in her heart, however, and did not always show itself in her manners.  But if she scolded him herself, she allowed no one else that privilege.  If Miss Benson differed from her brother, and ventured to think his sayings or doings might have been improved, Sally came down upon her like a thunder-clap.