don't
like it. I'm not meaning _you_, Master Thurstan."

"No, Sally, you need not say that. I know well enough who you mean
when you say 'some folk.' However, I admit I was wrong in speaking as
if you minded trouble, for there never was a creature minded it less.
But I want you to like Mrs Denbigh," said Miss Benson.

"I dare say I should, if you'd let me alone. I did na like her
sitting down in master's chair. Set her up, indeed, in an arm-chair
wi' cushions! Wenches in my day were glad enough of stools."

"She was tired to-night," said Mr Benson. "We are all tired; so if
you have done your work, Sally, come in to reading."

The three quiet people knelt down side by side, and two of them
prayed earnestly for "them that had gone astray." Before ten o'clock,
the household were in bed.

Ruth, sleepless, weary, restless with the oppression of a sorrow
which she dared not face and contemplate bravely, kept awake all the
early part of the night. Many a time did she rise, and go to the long
casement window, and look abroad over the still and quiet town--over
the grey stone walls, and chimneys, and old high-pointed roofs--on
to the far-away hilly line of the horizon, lying calm under the
bright moonshine. It was late in the morning when she woke from her
long-deferred slumbers; and when she went downstairs, she found Mr
and Miss Benson awaiting her in the parlour. That homely, pretty,
old-fashioned little room! How bright and still and clean it looked!
The window (all the windows at the back of the house were casements)
was open, to let in the sweet morning air, and streaming eastern
sunshine. The long jessamine sprays, with their white-scented stars,
forced themselves almost into the room. The little square garden
beyond, with grey stone walls all round, was rich and mellow in its
autumnal colouring, running from deep crimson hollyhocks up to amber
and gold nasturtiums, and all toned down by the clear and delicate
air. It was so still, that the gossamer-webs, laden with dew, did not
tremble or quiver in the least; but the sun was drawing to himself
the sweet incense of many flowers, and the parlour was scented with
the odours of mignonette and stocks. Miss Benson was arranging a
bunch of China and damask roses in an old-fashioned jar; they lay,
all dewy and fresh, on the white breakfast-cloth when Ruth entered.
Mr Benson was reading in some large folio. With gentle morning speech
they greeted her; but the quiet repose