All these particulars sank unconsciously into Ruth’s mind, but they did not rise to the surface, and become perceptible, for a length of time.  She was weary and much depressed.  Even the very kindness that ministered to her was overpowering.  But over the dark, misty moor a little light shone—­a beacon; and on that she fixed her eyes, and struggled out of her present deep dejection—­the little child that was coming to her!

Mr. Benson was as languid and weary as Ruth, and was silent during all this bustle and preparation.  His silence was more grateful to Ruth than Miss Benson’s many words, although she felt their kindness.  After tea, Miss Benson took her upstairs to her room.  The white dimity bed, and the walls, stained green, had something of the colouring and purity of effect of a snowdrop; while the floor, rubbed with a mixture that turned it into a rich dark-brown, suggested the idea of the garden-mould out of which the snowdrop grows.  As Miss Benson helped the pale Ruth to undress, her voice became less full-toned and hurried; the hush of approaching night subdued her into a softened, solemn kind of tenderness, and the murmured blessing sounded like granted prayer.

When Miss Benson came downstairs, she found her brother reading some letters which had been received during his absence.  She went and softly shut the door of communication between the parlour and the kitchen; and then, fetching a grey worsted stocking which she was knitting, sat down near him, her eyes not looking at her work but fixed on the fire; while the eternal rapid click of the knitting-needles broke the silence of the room, with a sound as monotonous and incessant as the noise of a hand-loom.  She expected him to speak, but he did not.  She enjoyed an examination into, and discussion of, her feelings; it was an interest and amusement to her, while he dreaded and avoided all such conversation.  There were times when his feelings, which were always earnest, and sometimes morbid, burst forth, and defied control, and overwhelmed him; when a force was upon him compelling him to speak.  But he, in general, strove to preserve his composure, from a fear of the compelling pain of such times, and the consequent exhaustion.  His heart had been very full of Ruth all day long, and he was afraid of his sister beginning the subject; so he read on, or seemed to do so, though he hardly saw the letter he held before him.  It was a great relief to him when Sally threw open the middle door with a bang, which did not indicate either calmness of mind or sweetness of temper.

“Is yon young woman going to stay any length o’ time with us?” asked she of Miss Benson.

Mr. Benson put his hand gently on his sister’s arm, to check her from making any reply, while he said—­

“We cannot exactly tell, Sally.  She will remain until after her confinement.”

“Lord bless us and save us!—­a baby in the house!  Nay, then my time’s come, and I’ll pack up and begone.  I never could abide them things.  I’d sooner have rats in the house.”