or.

"What brings you here?" asks Ruth, at length, in a voice hard and
unmusical.

"To see the man whose wife I was to have been next month," says
Clarissa, feeling compelled to answer. "And"--in a terrible tone--"who
are you?"

"The woman who ought to be his wife," says Ruth, in the same hard
tone, still with her hands tightly clasped.

Clarissa draws her breath hard, but returns no answer; and then there
falls upon them a long, long silence, that presently becomes
unbearable. The two women stand facing each other, scarcely breathing.
The unnatural stillness is undisturbed save by the quick irregular
gasps of the sick man.

Once he sighs heavily, and throws one hand and arm across his face.
Then Ruth stirs, and, going swiftly and noiselessly to his side, with
infinite tenderness draws away the arm and replaces it in its former
position. She moves his pillows quietly, and passes her cool hand
across his fevered brow.

"Ruth?" he moans, uneasily, and she answers, "I am here, darling," in
the faintest, sweetest whisper.

Something within Clarissa's heart seems to give way. At this moment,
for the first time, she realizes the true position in which he has
placed her. A sensation of faintness almost overcomes her, but by a
supreme effort she conquers her weakness, and crushes back, too, the
rising horror and anger that have sprung into life. A curious calm
falls upon her,--a state that often follows upon keen mental anguish.
She is still completing the victory she has gained over herself, when
Ruth speaks again.

"This is no place for you!" she says, coldly, yet with her hand up to
her cheek, as though to shield her face from the other's gaze.

Clarissa goes up to her then.

"So you are found at last," she says, somewhat monotonously. "And, of
all places, here! Is there any truth in the world, I wonder? Was it
shame kept you from writing, all these months, to your unhappy father?
Do you know that an innocent man--his brother"--pointing with a
shivering gesture to the unconscious Horace--"has been suffering all
this time for his wrong-doing?"

"I know nothing," replies Ruth, sternly. "I seek to know nothing. My
intercourse with the world ceased with my innocence."

"You knew of my engagement to him?" says Clarissa, again motioning
towards the couch.

"Yes."

"Before you left Pullingham?"

"No! oh, no!--not then," exclaims Ruth, eagerly. "I did not believe it
then. Do not judge me more harshly than you c