Ruth did not see this, or hear aught but the words which were reverently—­oh, how reverently!—­spoken by Mr. Benson.  He had had Ruth present in his thoughts all the time he had been preparing for his Sunday duty; and he had tried carefully to eschew everything which she might feel as an allusion to her own case.  He remembered how the Good Shepherd, in Poussin’s beautiful picture, tenderly carried the lambs which had wearied themselves by going astray, and felt how like tenderness was required towards poor Ruth.  But where is the chapter which does not contain something which a broken and contrite spirit may not apply to itself?  And so it fell out that, as he read, Ruth’s heart was smitten, and she sank down, and down, till she was kneeling on the floor of the pew, and speaking to God in the spirit, if not in the words, of the Prodigal Son:  “Father!  I have sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no more worthy to be called Thy child!” Miss Benson was thankful (although she loved Ruth the better for this self-abandonment) that the minister’s seat was far in the shade of the gallery.  She tried to look most attentive to her brother, in order that Mr. Bradshaw might not suspect anything unusual, while she stealthily took hold of Ruth’s passive hand, as it lay helpless on the cushion, and pressed it softly and tenderly.  But Ruth sat on the ground, bowed down and crushed in her sorrow, till all was ended.

Miss Benson loitered in her seat, divided between the consciousness that she, as locum tenens for the minister’s wife, was expected to be at the door to receive the kind greetings of many after her absence from home, and her unwillingness to disturb Ruth, who was evidently praying, and, by her quiet breathing, receiving grave and solemn influences into her soul.  At length she rose up, calm and composed even to dignity.  The chapel was still and empty; but Miss Benson heard the buzz of voices in the chapel-yard without.  They were probably those of people waiting for her; and she summoned courage, and taking Ruth’s arm in hers, and holding her hand affectionately, they went out into the broad daylight.  As they issued forth, Miss Benson heard Mr. Bradshaw’s strong bass voice speaking to her brother, and winced, as she knew he would be wincing, under the broad praise, which is impertinence, however little it may be intended or esteemed as such.

“Oh, yes!—­my wife told me yesterday about her—­her husband was a surgeon; my father was a surgeon too, as I think you have heard.  Very much to your credit, I must say, Mr. Benson, with your limited means, to burden yourself with a poor relation.  Very creditable indeed.”

Miss Benson glanced at Ruth; she either did not hear or did not understand, but passed on into the awful sphere of Mr. Bradshaw’s observation unmoved.  He was in a bland and condescending humour of universal approval, and when he saw Ruth he nodded his head in token of satisfaction.  That ordeal was over, Miss Benson thought, and in the thought rejoiced.