ays; "and for me? Oh, believe me, though I shall
never see you again, the recollection of these tears will soothe my
dying hours, and perhaps wash out a portion of my sins!"

Her head drops upon her hands. So might the sad Magdalen have knelt.
Her whole body trembles with the intensity of her emotion, yet no
sound escapes her.

"Ruth, for the last time, I implore you to come with me," says
Clarissa, brokenly. And once more the parched lips of the crouching
woman frame the words, "It is too late!"

A moment after, the door is opened, and closed again and Clarissa has
looked her last upon Ruth Annersley.

How she makes her way down to the room where Sir James sits awaiting
her, Clarissa never afterwards remembers.

"It is all over: take me away!" she says, quietly, but somewhat
incoherently.

"He isn't dead?" says Sir James, who naturally conceives the worst
from her agitation.

"No: it is even worse," she says. And then she covers her face with
her hands, and sinks into a chair. "Ruth Annersley is here!" When she
has said this, she feels that life has almost come to an end. How
shall she make this wretched revelation to her father, to Georgie, to
all the rest of the world?

As for Sir James, he stands at some distance from her, literally
stunned by the news. Words seem to fail him. He goes up to her and
takes one of her small icy-cold hands in his.

"Did you see her?"

"Yes."

"The scoundrel!" says Sir James, in a low tone. Then, "Is he very
ill?" There is unmistakable meaning in his tone.

"Very." And here she falls to bitter weeping again.

It is a cruel moment: Sir James still holds her hand, but can find no
words to say to comfort her; indeed, where can comfort lie?

At this instant a heavy footfall resounds along the passage outside.
It warns them of the sylph-like approach of Mrs. Goodbody. Sir James
going quickly to the door, intercepts her.

"My--my sister is quite upset," he says, nervously. "Mr. Branscombe
was--was worse than she expected to find him."

"Upset!--and no wonder, too," says Mrs. Goodbody, with heavy sympathy,
gazing approvingly at Miss Peyton. "There's no denying that he's so
worn out, the pore dear, as it's quite dispiritin' to see 'im, what
with his general appearings and the fear of a bad turn at any mingit.
For myself, I take my meals quite promiscuous like, since he fell
ill,--just a bit here and a bit there, it may be, but nothing reg'lar
like. I ain't got the 'art. How