o call a little upon
her "talent for fiction" to spare Ruth from the infliction of further
presents, in making which his love of patronising delighted.

The yellow and crimson leaves came floating down on the still October
air; November followed, bleak and dreary; it was more cheerful when
the earth put on her beautiful robe of white, which covered up all
the grey naked stems, and loaded the leaves of the hollies and
evergreens each with its burden of feathery snow. When Ruth sank down
to languor and sadness, Miss Benson trotted upstairs, and rummaged
up every article of spare or worn-out clothing, and bringing down a
variety of strange materials, she tried to interest Ruth in making
them up into garments for the poor. But though Ruth's fingers flew
through the work, she still sighed with thought and remembrance.
Miss Benson was at first disappointed, and then she was angry. When
she heard the low, long sigh, and saw the dreamy eyes filling with
glittering tears, she would say, "What is the matter, Ruth?" in a
half-reproachful tone, for the sight of suffering was painful to
her; she had done all in her power to remedy it; and, though she
acknowledged a cause beyond her reach for Ruth's deep sorrow, and, in
fact, loved and respected her all the more for these manifestations
of grief, yet at the time they irritated her. Then Ruth would snatch
up the dropped work, and stitch away with drooping eyes, from which
the hot tears fell fast; and Miss Benson was then angry with herself,
yet not at all inclined to agree with Sally when she asked her
mistress "why she kept 'mithering' the poor lass with asking her for
ever what was the matter, as if she did not know well enough." Some
element of harmony was wanting--some little angel of peace, in loving
whom all hearts and natures should be drawn together, and their
discords hushed.

The earth was still "hiding her guilty front with innocent snow,"
when a little baby was laid by the side of the pale white mother. It
was a boy; beforehand she had wished for a girl, as being less likely
to feel the want of a father--as being what a mother, worse than
widowed, could most effectually shelter. But now she did not think
or remember this. What it was, she would not have exchanged for a
wilderness of girls. It was her own, her darling, her individual
baby, already, though not an hour old, separate and sole in her
heart, strangely filling up its measure with love and peace, and even
hope.