ul manner than Mr Bradshaw had done. For these reasons,
although Mr Farquhar 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 Farquhar 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 Farquhar! Why they do say he's thinking of Miss Jemima!"

"Nonsense, Sally! why he's old enough to be her father!" said Miss
Benson, half way up the first flight.

"There's no need for it to be called nonsense, though he may be
ten year 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.

CHAPTER XVIII

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 Bensons'; 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 parlour. The yellow jessamine, that was then
a tender plant, had now taken firm root in the soil, and was sending
out strong shoots; the wall-flowers, which Miss Benson had sown on
the wall a day or two after her arrival, were scenting 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 accustomed song in the
kitchen, a song she never varied over her afternoon's work. It began,

As I was going to