have a "proper regard for the day." There was continual
bickering, many disputes and petty quarrels, and when bed-time came
every one was weary and cross, and seemed glad the day was over. No
wonder that Ruth often longed and sighed for one of the happy old
Sundays at home.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN ADVENTURE.

Gerald was less known to his cousin than any other member of the family,
for he spent very little time in her society. He usually rose late, and
after a hasty breakfast hurried away to the office whither his father
had already gone. The girls did not see him again until six o'clock when
he returned to dinner, frequently going out directly it was over to
spend the evening with his friends.

Yet, although Ruth saw but little of him, that little astonished her.
She could never forget that he was only a year or two older than Will. A
year or two made a great difference, she knew, but could Will ever
become such a well-dressed fashionable young man, who grumbled at his
mother if the dinner was not to his mind, scolded the servants, and
argued and talked to his father just as if he were a man of his own age?

Ruth thought not, and hoped not.

The short November days were cold and dreary, school duties seemed to
increase, and the girls were beginning to talk of the coming
examinations, and to look forward to the Christmas holidays and
festivities.

In spite of hard work Ruth found it a difficult matter to do all her
lessons thoroughly, and although she was strong and healthy and not
easily fatigued, the effort was beginning to tell upon her.

One fine Wednesday her aunt persuaded her to take a holiday. The rest
was very pleasant, but she had a certain amount of work to finish by the
end of the week, and sat up rather late the next night over her French
translation. She was obliged to give up at last, and went to bed quite
dissatisfied with her evening's work. But when she laid her head upon
the pillow sleep quite forsook her. She tossed and turned, but all in
vain, sleep would not come; her mind was full of the paragraph she had
been endeavouring to translate, and she felt sure that she could do it
much better, if only it were not so late.

Might she not scribble down a few of the sentences which had puzzled
her, but were now quite clear? Of course her aunt would not like it, but
then she need never know. It could not be any worse to write than to lie
in bed and think, she argued, and it would be such a reli