 CHAPTER XVII. In that body of dissenters to which Mr. Benson belonged, it is not considered necessary to baptize infants as early as the ceremony can be performed, and many circumstances concurred to cause the solemn thanksgiving and dedication of the child, for so these dissenters looked upon christenings, to be deferred until it was probably somewhere about six months old. There had been many conversations in the little sitting-room between the brother and sister and their protégé, which had consisted of questions betraying a thoughtful, wondering kind of ignorance on the part of Ruth, and answers more suggestive than explanatory from Mr. Benson, while Miss Benson kept up a kind of running commentary, always simple and often quaint, but with that intuition into the very heart of all things truly religious, which is often the gift of those who seem, at first sight, to be only affectionate and sensible. When Mr. Benson had explained his own view of what a christening ought to be considered, by calling out Ruth's latent feelings into pious earnestness, brought her into a right frame of mind, he felt that he had done what he could to make the ceremony more than a mere form, and to invest it quiet, humble, and obscure as it must necessarily be in outward shape, mournful and anxious as many of its antecedents had rendered it, with the severe grandeur of an act done in faith and truth. It was not far to carry the little one, for, as I said, the chapel almost adjoined the minister's house. The whole procession was to have consisted of Mr. and Miss Benson, Ruth carrying her babe, and Sally, who felt herself as a church of England woman, to be condescending and kind in requesting leave to attend a baptism among them dissenters. But unless she had asked permission, she would not have been desired to attend. So careful was the habit of her master and mistress, that she should be allowed that freedom which they claimed for themselves. But they were glad she wished to go. They liked the feeling that all were of one household, and that the interests of one were the interests of all. It produced a consequence, however, which they did not anticipate. Sally was full of the event which her presence was to sanction, and, as it were, to redeem from the character of being utterly schismatic. She spoke about it with an air of patronage, to three or four, and among them to some of the servants at Mr. Bradshaw's. Miss Benson was rather surprised to receive a call from Jemima Bradshaw on the very morning of the day on which little Leonard was to be baptized. Miss Bradshaw was rosy and breathless with eagerness. So the second in the family, she had been at school when her younger sisters had been christened, and she was now come, in the full warmth of a girl's fancy, to ask if she might be present at the afternoon service. She had been struck with Mrs. Denby's grace and beauty at the very first sight, when she had accompanied her mother to call upon the Benson's on the return from Wales, and had kept up an enthusiastic interest in the widow only a little older than herself, whose very reserve and retirement but added to her unconscious power of enchantment. Oh, Miss Benson, I never saw christening, Papa says I may go if you think Mr. Benson and Mrs. Denby would not dislike it, and I will be quite quiet and sit up behind the door or anywhere, and that sweet little baby I should so like to see him christened. Is he to be called Leonard? Did you say, after Mr. Denby, is it? No, not exactly, said Miss Benson, rather discomfited. Was not Mr. Denby's name Leonard, then? Mama thought it would be sure to be called after him, and so did I, but I may come to the christening, may I not, dear Miss Benson? Miss Benson gave her consent with a little inward reluctance, both her brother and Ruth shared in this feeling, although no one expressed it, and it was presently forgotten. Jemima stood grave and quiet in the old-fashioned vestry adjoining the chapel, as they entered with steps subdued to slowness. She thought Ruth looked so pale and odd, because she was left a solitary parent. But Ruth came to the presence of God, as one who has gone astray, and doubted her own worthiness to be called his child. She came as a mother who had incurred a heavy responsibility, and who entreated his almighty aid to enable her to discharge it, full of passionate yearning love which craved for more faith in God, to still her distrust and fear of the future that might hang over her darling. When she thought of her boy, she sickened and trembled. But when she heard of God's loving kindness, far beyond all tender mother's love, she was hushed into peace and prayer. There she stood, her fair pale cheek resting on her baby's head as he slumbered on her bosom. Her eyes went slanting down under their half-closed white lids. But their gaze was not on the primitive cottage-like room. It was earnestly fixed on a dim mist, through which she feigned would have seen the life that lay before her child. But the mist was still and dense, too thick a veil for anxious human love to penetrate. The future was hid with God. Mr. Benson stood right under the casement window that was placed high up in the room. He was almost in shade, except for one or two marked lights which fell on hair, already silvery white. His voice was always low and musical, when he spoke to few. It was too weak to speak so as to be heard by many without becoming harsh and strange. But now it filled the little room with a loving sound, like the stocked-dove's brooding murmur over her young. He and Ruth forgot all in their earnestness of thought, and when he said, Let us pray, and the little congregation knelt down, you might have heard the baby's faint breathing, scarcely sighing out upon the stillness, so absorbed were all in the solemnity. But the prayer was long, thought followed thought, and fear crowded upon fear, and all were to be laid bare before God, and his aid and counsel asked. Before the end, Sally had shuffled quietly out of the vestry into the green chapel yard upon which the door opened. Miss Benson was alive to this movement, and so full of curiosity as to what it might mean that she could no longer attend to her brother, and felt inclined to rush off and question Sally. The moment all was ended. Miss Bradshaw hung about the babe and Ruth, and begged to be allowed to carry the child home, but Ruth pressed him to her, as if there was no safe harbor for him but in his mother's breast. Mr. Benson saw her feeling, and caught Miss Bradshaw's look of disappointment. Come home with us, said he, and stay to tea. You have never drunk tea with us since you went to school. I wish I might, said Miss Bradshaw, coloring with pleasure, but I must ask Papa, may I run home and ask? To be sure, my dear. Jemima flew off, and fortunately her father was at home, for her mother's permission would have been deemed insufficient. She received many directions about her behavior. Take no sugar in your tea, Jemima. I am sure the Benson's ought not to be able to afford sugar with their means, and do not eat much. You can have plenty at home on your return. Where Mrs. Denby's keep must cost them a great deal. So Jemima returned considerably sobered, and very much afraid of her hunger, leading her to forget Mr. Benson's poverty. Meanwhile, Miss Benson and Sally, acquainted with Mr. Benson's invitation to Jemima, set about making some capital tea-cakes on which they peaked themselves. They both enjoyed the offices of hospitality, and were glad to place some homemade tempting dainty before their guests. What made you leave the chapel vestry before my brother had ended, inquired Miss Benson. Indeed, ma'am, I thought the master had prayed so long he'd be drowdy, so I just slipped out to put on the kettle for tea. Miss Benson was on the point of reprimanding her for thinking of anything besides the object of the prayer, when she remembered how she herself had been unable to attend after Sally's departure for wondering what had become of her, so she was silent. It was a disappointment to Miss Benson's kind and hospitable expectation when Jemima, as hungry as a hound, confined herself to one piece of the cake which her hostess had had such pleasure in making, and Jemima wished she had not a prophetic feeling all tea time of the manner in which her father would inquire into the particulars of the meal, elevating his eyebrows at every beyond named beyond plain bread and butter, and winding up with some such sentence as this. Well, I marvel how with Benson's salary he can afford to keep such a table. Sally could have told of self-denial when no one was by, when the left hand did not know what the right hand did, on the part of both her master and mistress, practiced without thinking even to themselves that it was either a sacrifice or a virtue in order to enable them to help those who were in need, or even to gratify Miss Benson's kind old-fashioned feelings on such occasion as the present when a stranger came to the house. Her homely affectionate pleasure in making others comfortable might have shown that such little occasional extravagances were not waste but a good work and were not to be gauged by the standard of money-spending. This evening her spirits were damped by Jemima's refusal to eat. Poor Jemima, the cakes were so good, and she was so hungry, but still she refused. While Sally was clearing away the tea-things, Miss Benson and Jemima accompanied Ruth upstairs when she went to put the little Leonard to bed. A christening is a very solemn service, said Miss Bradshaw. I had no idea it was so solemn. Mr. Benson seemed to speak as if he had a weight of care on his heart that God alone could relieve or lighten. My brother feels these things very much, said Miss Benson, rather wishing to cut short the conversation, for she had been aware of several parts in the prayer which she knew were suggested by the peculiarity and sadness of the case before him. I could not quite follow him all through, continued Jemima. What did he mean by saying, this child rebuked by the world and bidden to stand apart. Thou will not rebuke, but wilt suffer it to come to thee and be blessed with thine almighty blessing. Why is this little darling to be rebuked? I do not think I remember the exact words, but he said something like that. My dear, your gown is dripping wet. It must have dipped into the tub. Let me wring it out. Oh, thank you! Never mind my gown, said Jemima hastily, and wanting to return to her question, but just then she caught the sight of tears falling fast down the cheeks of the silent Ruth as she bent over her child, crowing and splashing away in his tub. With a sudden consciousness that unwittingly she had touched on some painful cord, Jemima rushed into another subject and was eagerly seconded by Miss Benson. The circumstance seemed to die away and leave no trace, but in after years it rose, vivid and significant, before Jemima's memory. At present it was enough for her if Mrs. Denby would let her serve her in every possible way. Her admiration for beauty was keen and little indulged at home, and Ruth was very beautiful in her quiet mournfulness. Her mean and homely dress left herself only the more open to admiration, for she gave it a charm by her unconscious wearing of it that made it seem like the drapery of an old Greek statue, subordinate to the figure it covered, yet imbued by it with an unspeakable grace. Then the pretended circumstances of her life were such as to catch the imagination of a young romantic girl. All together Jemima could have kissed her hand and professed herself, Ruth's slave. She moved away all the articles used at this little couche. She folded up Leonard's day clothes. She felt only too much honoured when Ruth trusted him to her for a few minutes. Only too amply rewarded when Ruth thanked her with a grave sweet smile and a grateful look of her loving eyes. When Jemima had gone away with the servant who was sent to fetch her, there was a little chorus of praise. She's a warm-hearted girl, said Miss Benson. She remembers all the old days before she went to school. She is worth two of Mr. Richard. There each of them just the same as they were when they were children, when they broke that window in the chapel, and he ran away home, and she came knocking at our door with a single knock, just like a beggars, and I went to see who it was, and she was quite startled to see her round, brown, honest face looking up at me, half frightened, and telling me what she had done, and offering me the money in her savings bank to pay for it. We never should have heard of Mr. Richard's share in the business if it had not been for Sally. What remember, said Miss Benson, how strict Mr. Bradshaw has always been with his children. It is no wonder if poor Richard was a coward in those days. He is now, or on much mistaken, answered Miss Benson, and Mr. Bradshaw was just as strict with Jemima, and she's no coward. But I've no faith in Richard. He has a look about him that I don't like, and when Mr. Bradshaw was away on business in Holland last year, for those months my young gentleman did not come hall as regularly to chapel, and I always believe that story of his being seen out with his hounds at Smithley's. Those are neither of them great offences in a young man of twenty, said Mr. Benson, smiling. No, I don't mind them in themselves, but when he could change back so easily to being regular and mim when his father came home, I don't like that. Leonard shall never be afraid of me, said Ruth, following her own train of thought. I will be his friend from the very first, and I will try and learn how to be a wise friend, and you will teach me, won't you, sir? What made you wish to call him Leonard, Ruth, asked Miss Benson? It was my mother's father's name, and she used to tell me about him and his goodness, and I thought if Leonard could be like him. Do you remember the discussion there was about Miss Bradshaw's name, Thurston? Her father wanting her to be called Hepsaba, but insisting that she was to have a scripture name at any rate, and Mrs. Bradshaw wanting her to be called Juliana after some novel she had read not long before, and at last Jemima was fixed upon, because it would do either for a scripture name or a name for a heroine out of a book. I did not know Jemima was a scripture name, said Ruth. Oh yes it is, one of Job's daughters, Jemima, Kezia, and Karen Hopuck. There are a good many Jemimas in the world, and some Kezias, but I never heard of a Karen Hopuck, and yet we know just as much of one as of another. People really like a pretty name, whether in scripture or out of it. When there is no particular association with the name, said Mr. Benson. Now, I was called Faith after the cardinal virtue, and I like my name, though many people would think it too puritan. That was according to our gentle mother's pious desire, and Thurston was called by his name, because father wished it, for, although he was what people called a radical and a democrat in his ways of thinking and talking, he was very proud in his heart of being descended from old Sir Thurston, who figured away in the French wars. The difference between theory and practice, thinking and being, put in Mr. Benson, who was in a mood for allowing himself a little social enjoyment. He leaned back in his chair with his eyes looking at, but not seeing, the ceiling. Miss Benson was clicking away with her eternal knitting needles, looking at her brother, and seeing him too. Ruth was arranging her child's clothes against the morrow. It was but their usual way of spending an evening. The variety was given by the different tone which the conversation assumed on the different nights. Yet somehow, the peacefulness of the time, the window open into the little garden, the sense that came stealing in, and the clear summer heaven above made the time be remembered as a happy festival by Ruth. Miss Benson's sally seemed more placid than usual when she came into prayers, and she and Miss Benson followed Ruth to her bedroom to look at the beautiful sleeping Leonard. God bless him, said Miss Benson, stooping down to kiss his little dimpled hand, which lay outside the coverlet, tossed abroad in the heat of the evening. Now don't get up too early, Ruth. Injuring your health will be short-sighted wisdom and poor economy. Good night. Good night, dear Miss Benson. Good night, Sally. When Ruth had shut her door, she went again to the bed and looked at her boy till her eyes filled with tears. God bless thee, darling. I only ask to be one of his instruments, and not thrown aside as useless or worse than useless. So ended the day of Leonard's christening. Mr. Benson had sometimes taught the children of different people as in a special favour when requested by them. But then his pupils were only children, and by their progress he was little prepared for Ruth's. She had had early teaching of that kind which need never be unlearned from her mother, enough to unfold many of her powers. They had remained inactive now for several years, but had grown strong in the dark and quiet time. Her tutor was surprised at the bounds by which she surmounted obstacles, the quick perception and ready adaptation of truths and first principles, and her immediate sense of the fitness of things. Her delight in what was strong and beautiful called out her master's sympathy, but most of all he admired the complete unconsciousness of uncommon power or unusual progress. It was less of a wonder than he considered it to be, it is true, for she never thought of comparing what she was now with her former self, much less with another. Indeed she did not think of herself at all, but of her boy and what she must learn in order to teach him to be and to do as suited her hope and her prayer. If anyone's devotion could have flattered her into self-consciousness, it was Jemima's. Mr. Bradshaw never dreamed that his daughter could feel herself inferior to the minister's protégé, but so it was, and no night errant of old, could consider himself more honored by his lady's commands than did Jemima, if Ruth allowed her to do anything for her or for the boy. Ruth loved her heartily, even while she was rather annoyed at the open expression Jemima used of admiration. Please, I really would rather not be told if people do think me pretty, but it was not merely beautiful, it was sweet-looking and good, Miss Postal Waithe called you, replied Jemima. All the more I would rather not hear it. I may be pretty, but I know I am not good. Besides, I don't think we ought to hear what is said of us behind our backs. Ruth spoke so gravely that Jemima feared lest she was displeased. Dear Mrs. Denby, I will never admire or praise you again. Only let me love you. And let me love you, said Ruth with a tender kiss. Jemima would not have been allowed to come so frequently if Mr. Bradshaw had not been possessed with the idea of patronizing Ruth. If the latter had chosen, she might have gone dressed from head to foot in the presence which he wished to make her, but she refused them constantly, occasionally to Miss Benson's great annoyance. But if he could not load her with gifts, he could show his approbation by asking her to his house, and after some deliberation she consented to accompany Mr. and Miss Benson there. The house was square and massy-looking, with a great deal of drab color about the furniture. Mrs. Bradshaw, in her lackadaisical, sweet-tempered way, seconded her husband in his desire of being kind to Ruth, and as she cherished privately a great taste for what was beautiful or interesting, as opposed to her husband's love of the purely useful, this taste of hers had rarely had so healthy and true a mode of gratification as when she watched Ruth's movements about the room, which seemed in its obtrusiveness and poverty of color to receive the requisite ornament of light and splendor from Ruth's presence. Mrs. Bradshaw sighed and wished she had a daughter as lovely, about whom to weave a romance, for castle-building, after the manner of the Minerva Press, was the outlet by which she escaped from the pressure of her prosaic life as Mr. Bradshaw's wife. Her perception was only of external beauty, and she was not always alive to that. Or she might have seen how a warm, affectionate, ardent nature, free from all envy or caulking care of self, gave an unspeakable charm to her plain, bright-faced daughter, Jemima, whose dark eyes kept challenging admiration for her friend. The first evening spent at Mr. Bradshaw's passed like many succeeding visits there. There was tea, the equipage for which was as handsome and as ugly as money could purchase. Then the ladies produced their sewing, while Mr. Bradshaw stood before the fire, and gave the assembled party the benefit of his opinions on many subjects. The opinions were as good and excellent as the opinions of any man can be, who sees one side of a case very strongly and almost ignores the other. They coincided in many points with those held by Mr. Benson, but he once or twice interposed with a plea for those who might differ, and then he was heard by Mr. Bradshaw with a kind of evident and indulgent pity, such as one feels for a child who unwittingly talks nonsense. By and by Mrs. Bradshaw and Mrs. Benson fell into one tetetet and Ruth and Jemima into another. Two well-behaved but unnaturally quiet children were sent to bed early in the evening, in an authoritative voice by their father, because one of them had spoken too loud while he was enlarging on an alteration in the tariff. Just before the suppotray was brought in, a gentleman was announced, whom Ruth had never previously seen, but who appeared well known to the rest of the party. It was Mr. Falkahaw, Mr. Bradshaw's partner. He had been on the Continent for the last year, and had only recently returned. He seemed perfectly at home, but spoke little. He leaned back in his chair, screwed up his eyes, and watched everybody. Yet there was nothing unpleasant or unpertinent in his keenness of observation. Ruth wondered to hear him contradict Mr. Bradshaw and almost expected some rebuff, but Mr. Bradshaw, if he did not yield the point, admitted for the first time that evening that it was possible something might be said on the other side. Mr. Falkahaw differed also from Mr. Benson, but it was in a more respectful manner than Mr. Bradshaw had done. For these reasons, although Mr. Falkahaw had never spoken to Ruth, she came away with the impression that he was a man to be respected and perhaps liked. Sally would have thought herself mightily aggrieved if, on their return, she had not heard some account of the evening. As soon as Miss Benson came in, the old servant began. Well, and who was there, and what did they give you for supper? Only Mr. Falkahaw, besides ourselves, and sandwiches, sponge cake, and wine, there was no occasion for anything more, replied Miss Benson, who was tired and preparing to go upstairs. Mr. Falkahaw, why do they say he's thinking of Miss Jemima? Nonsense, Sally, why he's old enough to be her father, said Miss Benson, halfway up the first flight. There's no need for it to be called nonsense, though he may be ten years older, muttered Sally, retreating towards the kitchen. Bradshaw's Betsy knows what she's about, and wouldn't have said it for nothing. Ruth wondered a little about it. She loved Jemima well enough to be interested in what related to her, but after thinking for a few minutes, she decided that such a marriage was, and would ever be, very unlikely. Please visit LibriVox.org, Recording by Cynthia Lyons. Ruth by Elizabeth Clegg Horne Gaskell, Chapter 18. Ruth becomes a governess in Mr. Bradshaw's family. One afternoon, not long after this, Mr. and Miss Benson set off to call upon a farmer who attended the chapel, but lived at some distance from the town. They intended to stay to tea if they were invited, and Ruth and Sally were left to spend a long afternoon together. At first Sally was busy in her kitchen, and Ruth employed herself in carrying her baby out into the garden. It was now nearly a year since she came to the Benson's. It seemed like yesterday, and yet as if a lifetime had gone between. The flowers were budding now, that were all in bloom when she came down, on the first autumnal morning into the sunny parlor. The yellow jesamine that was then a tender plant had now taken firm root in the soil, and was sending out strong roots. The wall flowers, which Miss Benson had sown on the wall a day or two after her arrival, were sending the air with their fragrant flowers. Ruth knew every plant now. It seemed as though she had always lived here, and always known the inhabitants of the house. She heard Sally singing her a custom song in the kitchen, a song she never varied over her afternoon's work. It began, as I was going to Darby, sir, upon a market day. And if music is a necessary element in a song, perhaps I had better call it by some other name. But the strange change was in Ruth herself. She was conscious of it, though she could not define it, and did not dwell upon it. Life had become significant and full of duty to her. She delighted in the exercise of her intellectual powers, and liked the idea of the infinite amount of which she was ignorant, for it was a grand pleasure to learn, to crave and be satisfied. She strove to forget what had gone before this last twelve months. She shuddered up from contemplating it. It was like a bad, unholy dream. And yet there was a strange yearning kind of love for the father of the child whom she pressed to her heart, which came, and she could not bid it be gone as sinful. It was so pure and natural, even when thinking of it, as in the sight of God. Little Leonard cooed to the flowers, and stretched after their bright colors. And Ruth laid him on the dry turf, and pelted him with the gay petals. He chinked and crowed with laughing delight, and clutched at her cap, and pulled it off. Her short, rich curls were golden brown in the slanting sunlight, and by their very shortness made her more childlike. She hardly seemed as if she could be the mother of the noble babe over whom she knelt, now snatching kisses, now matching his cheek with rose-leaves. All at once the bells of the old church struck the hour, and far away, high up in the air, began slowly to play the old tune of Life Let Us Cherish. They had played it for years, for the life of man, and it always sounded fresh, and strange, and aerial. Ruth was still in a moment. She knew not why, and the tears came into her eyes as she listened. When it was ended she kissed her baby, and bade God bless him. Just then Sally came out, dressed for the evening with a leisurely look about her. She had done her work, and she and Ruth were to drink tea together in the exquisitely clean kitchen. But while the kettle was boiling, she came out to enjoy the flowers. She gathered a piece of southern wood, and stuffed it up her nose by way of smelling it. What do you call this in your country? asked she. Old man, replied Ruth. We call it here lad's love. It and peppermint drops always reminds me of going to church in the country. Here, I'll get you a black current leaf to put in the teapot. It gives it a flavor. We had bees once against this wall, but when Mrs. died, we forgot to tell him and put him in mourning, and in course they swarmed away without our knowing, and the next winter came a hard frost and they died. Now I daresay the water will be boiling, and it's time for little master there to come in for the dew is falling. See all the daisies is shutting themselves up. Sally was most gracious as a hostess. She quite put on her company manners to receive Ruth in the kitchen. They laid Leonard to sleep on the sofa in the parlor that they might hear him the more easily, and then they sat quietly down to their sowing by the bright kitchen fire. Sally was as usual the talker, and as usual the subject was the family of whom for so many years she had formed a part. I things were different when I was a girl, quote she. Eggs was thirty for a shilling, and butter only six pence a pound. My wage when I came here was but three pound, and I did on it, and was always clean and tidy, which is more than many alas can say, who now gets seven and eight pound a year. And tea was kept for an afternoon drink, and pudding was eaten of four meat in them days. When the upshot was, people paid their debts better, aye, aye, we're gone backwards. We thinkin' we're gone forwards. After shaking her head a little over the degeneracy of the times, Sally returned to a part of the subject on which she thought she had given Ruth the wrong idea. You'll not go forth to think now that I've not more than three pound a year. I've a deal above that now. First of all, old Mrs. gave me four pound, for she said I were worth it, and I thought in my heart that I were, so I took it without more ado. But after her death Master Thurson and Miss Faith took a fit of spending, and says they to me one day, as I carried tea in, Sally, we think your wages ought to be raised. What matter what you think, said I, pretty sharp, for I thought they'd have shown more respect to Mrs. if they let things stand as they were in her time, and they'd gone and moved the sofa away from the wall to where it stands now, already that very day. So I speaks up sharp, and says I, as long as I'm content, I think it's no business of yours to be meddling with me and my money matters. But, says Miss Faith, she's always the one to speak first if you'll notice, though it's Master that comes in and clinches the matter with some reason. She'd never have thought of. He were always a sensible lad. Sally, all the servants in the town have six pound and better, and you have as hard a place as any of them. Did you ever hear me grumble about my work, that you talk about it that way? Wait till I grumble, says I, but don't meddle with me till then. So I flung off in a huff, but in the course of the evening Master Thurston came in and sat down in the kitchen, and he's such winning ways, he wiles, went over to anything, and besides a notion had come into my head, now you'll not tell, said she, glancing round the room and hitching up her chair nearer to Ruth in a confidential manner. Ruth promised, and Sally went on. I thought I should like to be an heiress with money, and leave it all to Master and Miss Faith, and I thought if I'd six pound a year I could maybe get to be an heiress. All I was feared on was that some chap or other might marry me for my money, but I've managed to keep the fellows off. So I looks Mim and Grateful, and I thanks Master Thurston for his offer, and I take the wages. And what do you think I've done? asked Sally, with an exultant air. What have you done? asked Ruth. Why? replied Sally, slowly and emphatically. I've saved thirty pounds, but that's not it. I've gotten a lawyer to make me a will. That's it, Wench, said she, slapping Ruth on the back. How did you manage it? asked Ruth. I, that was it, said Sally. I thought about it many a night before I hit on the right way. I was afeard the money might be thrown into chancery if I didn't make it all safe, yet I could not ask Master Thurston. At last, and at length, John Jackson the Grocer had a neighbor come to stay a week with him, as was prentice to a lawyer in Liverpool, so now is my time and here was my lawyer. Wait a minute, I could tell you my story better if I had my will in my hand, and I'll scump fish you if ever you go for to tell. She held up her hand and threatened Ruth as she left the kitchen to fetch the will. When she came back, she brought a parcel tied up in a blue pocket handkerchief. She sat down, squared her knees, untied the handkerchief, and displayed a small piece of parchment. Now, do you know what this is? said she, holding it up. It's parchment, and it's the right stuff to make wills on. People gets into chancery if they don't make them of this stuff, and I reckon Tom Jackson thought he'd have a fresh job on it if he could get it into chancery, for the rascal went and wrote it on a piece of paper at first, and came and read it me out loud off a piece of paper, no better than what one writes letters upon. I were up to him and thinks I come, come, my lad, I'm not a fool, though you may think so. I know a piece of paper won't stand, but I'll let you run your rig, so I sits and I listens, and would you believe me? He read it out as if it were clear, a business as you're giving me that thimble. No more ado, though it were thirty pound I could understand it myself. That were no law for me, I wanted some it to consider about, and for the meaning to be wrapped up as I wrap up my best gown. So I says, Tom, it's not on parchment, I must have it on parchment. This'll do as well, says he, we'll get it whistnest and it will stand good. Well, I like the notion of having it whistnest, and for a while that soothed me, but after a bit I felt I should like it done according to law, and not plain out as anybody might have done it. I myself, if I could have written, so I says, Tom, I must have it on parchment. Parchment costs money, says he, very grave. Oh my lad, are you there, thinks I, that's the reason I'm clipped of law. So says I, Tom, I must have it on parchment, I'll pay the money and welcome. It's thirty pound, and what can I lay to it, I'll make it safe, it shall be on parchment and I'll tell thee what lad, I'll give you six pence for every good law word you put in it, sounding like, and not to be caught up as a person runs, your master had need to be ashamed of you as an apprentice if you can't do a thing more tradesmen like than this. Well, he laughed above a bit, but I were firm and stood to it, so he made it out on parchment. Now woman, try and read it, says she, giving it to Ruth. Ruth smiled and began to read. Sally listened with rapt attention. When Ruth came to the word, test a tricks, Sally stopped her. That was the first six pence, said she. I thought he was going to fob me off again with plain language, but when that word came, I out with my six pence and gave it to him on the spot. Now go on. Presently Ruth read a crewing. That was a second six pence, four six pences it were in all, besides six and eight pence as we bargained at first, and three and four pence parchment. There, that's what I call a will, witnessed according to law and all. Master Thurston will be prettily taken in when I die, and he finds all his extra wage left back to him. But it will teach him it's not so easy as he thinks for, to make a woman give up her way. The time was now drawing near when little Leonard might be weaned. The time appointed by all three for Ruth to endeavor to support herself in some way more or less independent of Mr. and Miss Benson. Miss Prospect dwelt much in all of their minds, and was in each shaded with some degree of perplexity, but they none of them spoke of it for fear of accelerating the event. If they had felt clear and determined as to the best course to be pursued, they were none of them deficient in courage to commence upon that course at once. Miss Benson would perhaps have objected the most to any alteration in their present daily mode of life, but that was because she had the habit of speaking out her thoughts as they arose, and she particularly disliked and dreaded change. Besides this she had felt her heart open out, and warm towards the little helpless child in a strong and powerful manner. Patricia had intended her warm instincts to find vent in a mother's duties. Her heart had yearned after children, and made her restless in her childless state without her well-knowing why. But now the delight she experienced in tending, nursing, and contriving for the little boy, even contriving to the point of sacrificing many of her cherished whims, made her happy and satisfied and peaceful. It was more difficult to sacrifice her whims than her comforts, but all had been given up when and where required by the sweet lordly baby, who reigned paramount in his very helplessness. From some cause or other an exchange of ministers for one Sunday was to be affected with a neighboring congregation, and Mr. Benson went on a short absence from home. When he returned on Monday he was met at the house door by his sister, who had evidently been looking out for him for some time. She stepped out to greet him. Don't hurry yourself, Thurston. All's well. Only I wanted to tell you something. Don't fidget yourself. Baby is quite well, bless him. It's only good news. Come into your room and let me talk a little quietly with you. She drew him into his study, which was near the outer door, and then she took off his coat and put his carpet-bag in a corner and wheeled a chair to the fire before she would begin. Well, now, to think how often things fall out just as we want them, Thurston. Have you not often wondered what was to be done with Ruth when the time came at which we promised her she should earn her living? I am sure you have, because I have so often thought about it myself, and yet I never dared to speak out my fear, because that seemed giving it a shape. And now Mr. Bradshaw has put all to rights. He invited Mr. Jackson to dinner yesterday, just as we were going into Chapel, and then he turned to me and asked me if I would come to tea straight from Afternoon Chapel, because Mrs. Bradshaw wanted to speak to me. He made it very clear I was not to bring Ruth, and indeed she was only too happy to stay home with baby. And so I went, and Mrs. Bradshaw took me into her bedroom, and shut the doors, and said Mr. Bradshaw had told her that he did not like Jemima being so much confined with the younger ones while they were at their lessons, and that he wanted someone above a nursemaid to sit with them while their masters were there, someone who would see about their learning their lessons and who would walk out with them, a sort of nursery governess, I think she meant, though she did not say so. And Mr. Bradshaw, for of course I saw his thoughts and words constantly peeping out, though he had told her to speak to me, believed that our Ruth would be the very person. Now Thurston don't look so surprised, as if she had never come into your head. I am sure I saw what Mrs. Bradshaw was driving at, long before she came to the point, and I could scarcely keep from smiling and saying, We jump at the proposal, long before I ought to have known anything about it. Oh, I wonder what we ought to do, said Mr. Benson, or rather I believe I see what we ought to do if I durst but do it. Why? What ought we to do? asked his sister in surprise. I ought to go and tell Mr. Bradshaw the whole story. And get Ruth turned out of our house, said Mrs. Benson indignantly. They can't make us do that, said her brother, I do not think they would try. Yes, Mr. Bradshaw would try, and he would blaze an outpour Ruth's sin, and there would not be a chance for her left. I know him well, Thurston, and why should he be told now, more than a year ago? A year ago he did not want to put her in a situation of trust about his children. And you think she'll abuse that trust, do you? You've lived a twelve-month in the house with Ruth, and the end of it is you think she will do his children harm? Besides, who encouraged Jemima to come to the house so much to see Ruth? Did you not say it would do them both good to see something of each other? Mr. Benson sat thinking. If you had not known Ruth as well as you do, if, during her stay with us, you had marked anything wrong, or forward, or deceitful, or immodest, I would say at once, don't allow Mr. Bradshaw to take her into his house. But still I would say, don't tell of her sin and sorrow to so severe a man, so unpitiful a judge. But here I ask you, Thurston, can you, or I, or Sally, quick-eyed as she is? Say, that in any one thing we have had true, just occasion to find fault with Ruth? I don't mean that she is perfect. She acts without thinking. Her temper is sometimes warm and hasty. But have we any right to go and injure her prospects for life by telling Mr. Bradshaw all we know of her errors, only sixteen when she did so wrong, and never to escape from it all her many years to come, to have the despair which would arise from its being known, clutching her back into worse sin? What harm do you think she can do? What is the risk to which you think you are exposing Mr. Bradshaw's children? She paused out of breath, her eyes glittering with tears of indignation, and impatient for an answer that she might knock it to pieces. I do not see any danger that can arise, said he at length, and with slow difficulty, as if not fully convinced. I have watched Ruth, and I believe she is pure and truthful, and the very sorrow and penitence she has felt, the very suffering she has gone through, has given her a thoughtful conscientiousness beyond her age. That and the care of her baby, said Miss Benson, secretly delighted at the tone of her brother's thoughts. Ah, Faith, that baby, you so much dreaded once, is turning out a blessing, you see, that Thurston, with a faint, quite smile. Yes, any one might be thankful, and better too, for Leonard, but how could I tell that it would be like him? But to return to Ruth and Mr. Bradshaw, what did you say? Oh, with my feelings, of course, I was only too glad to accept the proposal, and so I told Mrs. Bradshaw then, and I afterwards repeated it to Mr. Bradshaw, when he asked me if his wife had mentioned their plans. They would understand that I must consult you and Ruth before it could be considered as finally settled. And have you named it to her? Yes, answered Miss Benson, half afraid lest he should think she had been too precipitate. And what did she say, asked he, after a little pause of grave silence. At first she seemed very glad, and fell into my mood of planning how it should all be managed, how Sally and I should take care of the baby the hours that she was away at Mr. Bradshaw's. But by and by she became silent and thoughtful, and knelt down by me, and hid her face in my lap, and shook a little as if she was crying, and then I heard her speak in a very low, smothered voice. For her head was still bent down, quite hanging down, indeed, so that I could not see her face, so I stooped to listen and I heard her say. Do you think I should be good enough to teach little girls, Miss Benson? She said it so humbly and fearfully that all I thought of was how to cheer her, and I answered and asked her if she did not hope to be good enough to bring up her own darling, to be a brave Christian man. And she lifted up her head, and I saw her eyes looking wild and wet and earnest, and she said, with God's help that will I try to make my child. And then I said, Ruth, as you strive and as you pray for your own child, you must strive and pray to make Mary and Elizabeth good if you are trusted with them. And she said quite clear, though her face was hidden from me once more, I will strive and I will pray. You would not have any fears thirsting if you could have heard and seen her last night. I have no fear, said he decidedly. Let the plan go on. After a minute he added, but I am glad I, it was so far arranged before I heard of it. My indecision about right and wrong. My perplexity about how far we are to calculate consequences grows upon me, I fear. You look tired and weary, dear. You should blame your body rather than your consciousness at these times. A very dangerous doctrine. The scroll of fate was closed, and they could not foresee the future. And yet, if they could have seen it, though they might have shrunk fearfully at first, they would have smiled and thanked God when all was done and said. End of CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIX OF RUTH CHAPTER XIX After five years. The quiet days grew into weeks and months and even years without any event to startle the little circle into the consciousness of the lapse of time. One who had known them at the date of Ruth becoming a governess in Mr. Bradshaw's family and had been absent until the time of which I am now going to tell you, would have noted some changes which had imperceptibly come over all. But he too would have thought that the life which had brought so little of turmoil and vicissitude must have been calm and tranquil, and in accordance with the bygone activity of the town in which their existence passed away. The alterations that he would have perceived were those caused by the natural progress of time. The Benson home was brightened into vividness by the presence of the little Leonard, now a noble boy of six, large and grand in limb and stature, and with a face of marked beauty and intelligence. Indeed he might have been considered by many as too intelligent for his years, and often the living with old and thoughtful people gave him, beyond most children, the appearance of pondering over the mysteries which meet the young on the threshold of life, but which fade away as advancing years bring us more into contact with the practical and tangible. Fade away and vanished until it seems to require the agitation of some great storm of the soul before we can again realize spiritual things. But at times Leonard seemed oppressed and bewildered, after listening intent with grave and wondering eyes to the conversation around him. At others the bright animal life shone forth radiant, and no three months kitten, no foal, suddenly tossing up its heels by the side of its sedate dam, and careering around the pasture in pure mad enjoyment. No young creature of any kind could show more merriment and gladness of heart. Forever in mischief was Sally's account of him at such times, but it was not intentional mischief, and Sally herself would have been the first to scold anyone else who had used the same words in reference to her darling. Indeed, she was once nearly giving warning because she thought the boy was being ill-used. The occasion was this. Leonard had for some time shown a strange, odd disregard of truth. He invented stories and told them with so grave a face that unless there was some internal evidence of their incorrectness, such as describing a cow with a bonnet on, he was generally believed, and his statements, which were given with the full appearance of relating a real occurrence, had once or twice led to awkward results. All the three whose hearts were pained by this apparent unconsciousness of the difference between truth and falsehood were unaccustomed to children, or they would have recognized this as a stage through which most infants who would have lively imaginations pass, and accordingly there was a consultation in Mr. Benson's study one morning. Ruth was there, quiet, very pale, and with compressed lips, sick at heart as she heard Ms. Benson's arguments for the necessity of whipping in order to cure Leonard of his storytelling. Mr. Benson looked happy and uncomfortable. Education was but a series of experiments to them all, and they all had a secret dread of spoiling the noble boy, who was the darling of their hearts, and perhaps this very intensity of love begot an impatient, unnecessary anxiety, and made them resolve on sterner measures than the parent of a large family, where love was more spread abroad, would have dared to use. At any rate, the vote for whipping carried the day, and even Ruth, trembling and cold, agreed that it must be done. Suddenly she asked, in a meek, sad voice, if she need be present. Mr. Benson was to be the executioner, the scene, the study, and being instantly told that she had better not, she went slowly and languidly up to her room, and kneeling down she closed her ears and prayed. Ms. Benson, having carried her point, was very sorry for the child, and would have begged him off, but Mr. Benson had listened more to her arguments than now to her pleadings, and only answered, if it is right it shall be done. He went into the garden, and deliberately, almost as if he wished to gain time, chose and cut off a little switch from the labyrinthum tree. Then he returned through the kitchen, and gravely taking the odd and wondering little fellow by the hand, he led him silently into the study, and placing him before him began an admonition on the importance of truthfulness, meaning to conclude with what he believed to be the moral of all punishment. As you cannot remember this of yourself, I must give you a little pain to make you remember it. I am sorry it is necessary, and that you cannot recollect without my doing so. But before he had reached this very proper and desirable conclusion, and while he was yet working his way, his heart ached with the terrified look of the child at the solemnly sad face and words of upbrading. Sally burst in, and what may ye be going to do with that fine switch I saw ye gathering master Thurston, asked she, her eyes gleaming with anger at the answer she knew must come if answer she had at all. Go away, Sally, said Mr. Benson, annoyed at the fresh difficulty in his path. I'll not stir never a step till you give me that switch as you've got for some mischief I'll be bound. Sally, remember where it is said, he that spareth the rod, spoileth the child, said Mr. Benson austerely. I, I remember, and I remember a bit more than you want me to remember, I reckon. It were King Solomon, as spoke them words, and it were King Solomon's son that were King Rehoboam, and no great shakes either. I can remember what is said on him. Second Chronicles 12, chapter 14th first, and he, that's King Rehoboam, the lad that tasted the rod, did evil because he prepared not his heart to seek the Lord. I've not been reading my chapters every night for fifty year to be caught napping by a dissenter neither, said she triumphantly. Come along, Leonard, she stretched out her hand to the child, sinking that she had conquered. But Leonard did not stir. He looked wistfully at Mr. Benson. Come, said she impatiently. The boy's mouth quivered. If you want to whip me, Uncle, you may do it, I don't much mind. Put in this form it was impossible to carry out his intentions, and so Mr. Benson told the lad he might go, that he would speak to him another time. Leonard went away, more subdued in spirit, than if he had been whipped. Sally lingered a moment. She stopped to add. I think it's for them, without sin, to throw stones at a poor child, and cut up good LeBernon branches to whip him. I only do as my bedders do, when I call Leonard's mother Mrs. Denby. The moment she had said this she was sorry. It was an ungenerous advantage after the enemy had acknowledged himself defeated. Mr. Benson dropped his head upon his hands, and bid his face and sighed deeply. Leonard flew in search of his mother, as in search of a refuge. If he had found her calm, he would have burst into a passion of crying after his agitation. As it was, he came upon her kneeling and sobbing, and he stood quite still. Then he threw his arms round her neck, and said, Mama, Mama, I will be good, I make a promise, I will speak true, I make a promise. And he kept his word. Miss Benson peaked herself upon being less carried away by her love for this child than anyone else in the house. She talked severely, and had capital theories, but her severity ended in talk, and her theories would not work. However, she read several books on education, knitting socks for Leonard all the while, and upon the whole I think the hands were more usefully employed than the head, and the good honest heart better than either. She looked older than when we first knew her, but it was a ripe, kindly age that was coming over her. Her excellent practical sense, perhaps, made her a more masculine character than her brother. He was often so much perplexed by the problems of life that he let the time for action go by, but she kept him in check by her clear pithy talk which brought back his wandering thoughts to the duty that lay straight before him, waiting for action. And then he remembered that it was the faithful part to wait patiently upon God and leave the ends in his hands, who alone knows why evil exists in this world, and why it ever hovers on either side of good. In this respect Miss Benson had more faith than her brother, or so it seemed, for quick resolute action in the next step of life was all she required, while he deliberated and trembled and often did wrong from his very deliberation, when his first instinct would have led him right. But although decided and prompt as ever Miss Benson was grown older since the summer afternoon when she dismounted from the coach at the foot of the long well shill that led to Landew, where her brother awaited her to consult her about Ruth. Although her eye was as bright and straight looking as ever, quick and brave in its glances, her hair had become almost snowy white, and it was on this point she consulted Sally soon after the date of Leonard's last untruth. The two were arranging Miss Benson's room one morning, when, after dusting the looking glass, she suddenly stopped in her operation, and, after a close inspection of herself, startled Sally by this speech. Sally! I'm looking a great deal older than I used to. Sally, who was busy dilating on the increased price of flour, considered this remark of Miss Benson's as strangely irrelevant to the matter in hand, and only noticed it by a, to be sure, I suppose we all on us do, but two and four pence a dozen is too much to make us pay for it. Miss Benson went on with her inspection of herself, and Sally with her economical projects. Sally! said Miss Benson, my hair is nearly white. The last time I looked it was only pepper and salt. What must I do? Why? Do? Why? What would the wench do? Sally! Contemptuously. You're never going to be taken in, at your time of life, by hair dyes and such gim cracks, as can only take in young girls whose wisdom teeth are not cut, and who are not very likely to want them, said Miss Benson quietly. No, but you see, Sally, it's very awkward having such gray hair, and feeling so young. Do you know, Sally, I've as great a mind for dancing, when I hear a lively tune on the street organs as ever, and as great a mind to sing when I'm happy, to sing in my old way, Sally, you know? I, you had it from a girl, said Sally, and many a time when the door's been shut, I did not know if it was you in the parlor or a big bumblebee in the kitchen as was making that jumbling noise. I heard you at it yesterday. But an old woman with gray hair ought not to have a fancy for dancing or singing, continued Miss Benson. What nonsense are you talking, said Sally, roused to indignation, calling yourself an old woman when you're better than ten years younger than me, and many a girl has gray hair at five and twenty. But I'm more than five and twenty, Sally, I'm fifty-seven next May. More shame free than not to know better than to talk of dyeing your hair, I cannot abide such vanities. Oh dear Sally, when will you understand what I mean? I want to know how I'm to keep remembering how old I am, so as to prevent myself from feeling so young. I was quite startled just now to see my hair in the glass, for I can generally tell if my cap is straight by feeling. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll cut off a piece of my gray hair, and plate it together for a mark in my Bible. Miss Benson expected applause for this bright idea, but Sally only made answer. You'll be taking to painting your cheeks next. Now you've once thought of dyeing your hair. So Miss Benson plated her gray hair in silence and quietness, Leonard holding one end of it while she wove it, and admiring the color and texture all the time, with a sort of implied dissatisfaction at the auburn color of his own curls, which was only half comforted away by Miss Benson's information that he lived long enough his hair would be like hers. Mr. Benson, who had looked old and frail while he was yet but young, was now stationary as to the date of his appearance, but there was something more of nervous restlessness in his voice and ways than formally. That was the only change five years had brought to him. And as for Sally, she chose to forget age in the passage of years altogether, and had as much work in her to use her own expression as she had at sixteen, nor was her appearance very explicit as to the flight of time. Fifty, sixty, or seventy she might be, not more than the last nor less than the first, though her usual answer to any circuitous inquiry as to her age was now. What it had been for many years passed. I'm feared I shall never see thirty again. Then, as to the house, it was not one where the sitting rooms are refurnished every two or three years, not now even, since Ruth came to share their living, a place where, as an article grew shabby or worn, a new one was purchased. The furniture looked poor, and the carpets almost threadbare. But there was such a dainty spirit of cleanliness abroad, such exquisite neatness of repair, and altogether so bright and cheerful a look about the rooms, everything so aboveboard, no shifts to conceal poverty under flimsy ornament, that many a splendid drawing room would give less pleasure to those who could see evidence of character in inanimate things. But whatever poverty there might be in the house, there was full luxuriance in the little square wall encircled garden. On two sides of which the parlor and kitchen looked. The laburnum tree, which, when Ruth came, was like a twig stuck into the ground, was now a golden glory in spring, and a pleasant shade in summer. The wild hop that Mr. Benson had brought home from one of his country rambles, and planted by the parlor window, while Leonard was yet a baby in his mother's arms, was now a garland over the casement, hanging down long tendrils that waved in the breezes, and through pleasant shadows and traceries like some old bacchanalion carving on the parlor walls at Morn or Dusky Eve. The yellow rose had clambered up to the window of Mr. Benson's bedroom, and its blossom-laden branches were supported by a jargonel pear tree rich in autumnal fruit. But perhaps, in Ruth herself, there was the greatest external change, for of the change which had gone on in her heart and mind and soul, or if there had been any, neither she or anyone around her was conscious. But sometimes Miss Benson did say to Sally, How very handsome Ruth is grown, to which Sally made ungracious answer. Yes, she's well enough, beauty is deceitful and favor a snare, and I'm thankful the Lord has spared me from such mantraps and spring-guns. But even Sally could not help secretly admiring Ruth. If her early brilliancy of coloring was gone, a clear ivory skin as smooth as satin, told of complete and perfect health, and was as lovely, if not so striking in effect, as the banished lilies and roses. Her hair had grown darker and deeper in the shadow that lingered in its masses. Her eyes, even if you had guessed that they had shed bitter tears in their day, had a thoughtful spiritual look about them that made you wonder at their depth, and look, and look again. The increase of dignity in her face had been imparted to her form. I do not know if she had grown taller since the birth of her child, but she looked as if she had, and although she had lived in a very humble home, yet there was something about either it or her, or the people amongst whom she had been thrown during the last few years, which had so changed her, that whereas six or seven years ago you would have perceived that she was not altogether a lady by birth and education, yet now she might have been placed among the highest in the land, and would have been taken by the most critical judge for their equal, although ignorant of their conventional etiquette, an ignorance which she would have acknowledged in a simple childlike way, being unconscious of any false shame. Her whole heart was in her boy. She often feared that she loved him too much, more than God himself, yet she could not bear to pray to have her love for her child lessened, but she would kneel down by his little bed at night, at the deep, still midnight, with the stars that kept watch over Rispa shining down upon her, and tell God what I have now told you, that she feared and loved her child too much, yet could not, would not, love him less, and speak to him of her one treasure as she could speak to no earthly friend. And so unconsciously, her love of her child led her up to love to God, to the all-knowing who read her heart. It might be superstition, I dare say it was, but somehow she never lay down to rest without saying, as she looked her last on her boy, thy will not mine be done. And even while she trembled and shrank with infinite dread from sounding the depths of what that will might be, she felt as if her treasure were more secure to waken up rosy and bright in the morning, as one over whose slumbers, God's holy angels had watched, for the very words which she had turned away in sick terror from realizing the night before. Her daily absence at her duties to the Bradshaw children only ministered to her love for Leonard. Everything does minister to love when its foundation lies deep in a true heart, and it was with exquisite pang of delight that after a moment of vague fear, O mercy to myself, I said, if Lucy should be dead. She saw her child's bright face of welcome, as he threw open the door every afternoon on her return home. For it was his silently appointed work to listen for her knock, and rush breathless to let her in. If he were in the garden or upstairs among the treasures of the lumber-room, either Miss Benson or her brother or Sally would fetch him to his happy little task. No one so sacred as he to the allotted duty. And the joyous meeting was not deadened by custom to either mother or child. Ruth gave the Bradshaw's the highest satisfaction, as Mr. Bradshaw often said both to her and to the Benson's—indeed, she rather winced under his pompous approbation. But his favorite recreation was patronizing, and when Ruth saw how quietly and meekly Mr. Benson submitted to gifts and praise, when an honest word of affection or a tacit implied acknowledgment of equality would have been worth everything said and done, she tried to be more meek in spirit and to recognize the good that undoubtedly existed in Mr. Bradshaw. He was richer and more prosperous than ever, a keen, far-seeing man of business, with an undisguised contempt for all who failed in the success which he had achieved. But it was not alone those who were less fortunate in obtaining wealth than himself that he visited with severity of judgment every moral error or delinquency came under his unsparing comment. Even by no vice himself, either in his own eyes or in that of any human being who cared to judge him, having nicely and wisely proportioned and adapted his means to his ends, he could afford to speak and act with a severity which was almost sanctimonious in its ostentation or thankfulness as to himself. Not a misfortune or a sin was brought to light, but Mr. Bradshaw could trace to its cause in some former mode of action which he long ago foretold would lead to shame. If another's son turned out wild or bad, Mr. Bradshaw had little sympathy. It might have been prevented by a stricter rule or more religious life at home. Young Richard Bradshaw was quiet and steady, and other fathers might have had sons like him if they had taken the same pains to enforce obedience. Richard was an only son, and yet Mr. Bradshaw might venture to say he had never had his own way in his life. Mrs. Bradshaw was, he confessed. Mr. Bradshaw did not like confessing his wife's errors. Rather less firm than he should have liked with the girls, and with some people, he believed, Jemima was rather headstrong, but to his wishes she had always shown herself obedient. All children were obedient if their parents were decided and authoritative, and everyone would turn out well if properly managed. If they did not prove good, then they might take the consequences of their errors. Mrs. Bradshaw murmured faintly at her husband when his back was turned, but if his voice was heard or his footsteps sounded in the distance, she was mute and hurried her children into the attitude or action most pleasing to their father. Jemima, it is true, rebelled against this manner of proceeding, which savored to her a little of deceit. But even she had not, as yet, overcome her awe of her father sufficiently to act independently of him, and according to her own sense of right, or rather, I should say, according to her own warm, passionate impulses. Before him the willfulness which made her dark eyes blaze out at times was hushed and still. He had no idea of herself tormenting, no notion of the almost southern jealousy which seemed to belong to her brunette complexion. Jemima was not pretty. The flatness and shortness of her face made her almost plain, yet most people looked twice at her expressive countenance, at the eyes which flamed or melted at every trifle, at the rich color which came, at every expressed emotion into her usually shallow face, at the faultless teeth which made her smile like a sunbeam. But then, again, when she thought she was not kindly treated, when a suspicion crossed her mind, or when she was angry with herself, her lips were tight pressed together, her color was wan and almost livid, and a stormy gloom clouded her eyes as with a film. But before her father her words were few, and he did not notice looks or tones. Her brother Richard had been equally silent before his father in boyhood and early youth, but since he had gone to be a clerk in a London house, preparatory to assuming his place as junior partner in Mr. Bradshaw's business, he spoke more on his occasional visits at home, and very proper and highly moral was his conversation, sentences of goodness, which were like the flowers that children stick in the ground, and that have not sprung upwards from roots, deep down in the hidden life and experience of the heart. He was as severe a judge as his father of other people's conduct, but you felt that Mr. Bradshaw was sincere in his condemnation of all outward error and vice, and that he would try himself by the same laws as he tried others. Somehow Richard's words were frequently heard with a lurking distrust, and many shook their heads over the patterned son, but then it was those whose sons had gone astray and had been condemned in no private or tender manner by Mr. Bradshaw, so it might be revenge in them. Still Jemima felt that all was not right, her heart sympathized in the rebellion against his father's commands, which her brother had confessed to her in an unusual moment of confidence, but her uneasy conscience condemned the deceit which he had practiced. The brother and sister was sitting alone over a blazing Christmas fire, and Jemima held an old newspaper in her hand to shield her face from the hot light. They were talking of family events, when, during a pause, Jemima's eye caught the name of a great actor who had lately given prominence and life to a character in one of Shakespeare's plays. The criticism in the paper was fine, and warmed Jemima's heart. How I should like to see a play exclaimed she. Should you, said her brother listlessly, yes to be sure, just hear this, and she began to read a fine passage of criticism. Those newspaper people can make an article out of anything, said he yawning. I've seen the man myself, and it was all very well, but nothing to make such a fuss about. Have you seen a play, Richard? Oh, why did you never tell me before? Tell me all about it. Why did you never name seeing in your letters? He half smiled, contemptuously enough. Oh, at first it strikes one rather, but after a while one cares no more for the theatre than one does for Mint's pies. Oh, I wish I might go to London, said Jemima impatiently. I have a great mind to ask Papa to let me go to the George Smiths, and then I could see I would not think him like Mint's pies. You must not do any such thing, said Richard, now neither yawning nor contemptuous. My father would never allow you to go to the theatre, and the George Smiths are such old fogies, they would be sure to tell. How do you go, then? Does my father give you leave? Oh, many things are right for men which are not for girls. Jemima sat and pondered. Richard wished he had not been so confidential. You need not name it, said he rather anxiously. Name what? said she startled, for her thoughts had gone far afield. Oh, name my going once or twice to the theatre. No, I shan't name it, said she. No one here would care to hear it. But it was with some little surprise, and almost with a feeling of disgust, that she heard Richard join with her father in condemning someone, and add to Mr. Bradshaw's list of offenses, by alleging that the young man was a play-goer. He did not think his sister heard his words. Mary and Elizabeth were the two girls whom Ruth had in charge. They resembled Jemima more than their brother in character. The household rules were occasionally a little relaxed in their favour, for Mary the Elder was nearly eight years younger than Jemima, and three intermediate children had died. They loved Ruth dearly, made a great pet of Leonard, and had many profound secrets together, most of which related to their wonders if Jemima and Mr. Falkahar would ever be married. They watched their sister closely, and every day had some fresh confidence to make to each other, confirming or discouraging to their hopes. Ruth rose early and shared the household work with Sally and Miss Benson till seven, and then she helped Leonard to dress, and had a quiet time alone with him till prayers and breakfast. At nine she was to be at Mr. Bradshaw's house. She sat in the room with Mary and Elizabeth during the Latin, the writing, and the arithmetic lessons, which they received from masters. Then she read and walked with them, clinging to her as to an elder sister. She dined with her pupils at the family lunch, and reached home by four. But happy home those quiet days, and so the peaceful days passed on into weeks and months and years, and Ruth and Leonard grew and strengthened into the ripe beauty of their respective ages, while as yet no touch of decay had come on the quaint, primitive elders of the household. End of Chapter 19