rite to her until
he was ready to send for her; but a certain feeling of pride held him
back, for he said: "She doubted me once, and now I'll wait till I can
prove myself worthy of her trust."

Meanwhile, in heart-sickening suspense, Ruth waited mail after mail for
an answer to her letter. At last there came one for her, bearing the
Australian postmark. She tore it open in fear, for the handwriting was
strange. It ran as follows:

"Dear Miss,

"I am sorry to send you bad news, but you must
take it kindly from one who wishes you well. The
truth is, that Jack is going to the bad as fast as
he can, which I'm sorry to say of my own brother.
I was downright ashamed of the way he went on,
after reading a letter you sent him. He got real
mad over it, and swore he'd have nothing to do
with a canting Methodist, and a deal more which I
won't write, not wishing to put you about. Last of
all, he tore the letter up. I write these few
lines to save you from expecting to hear any more
of him, as he's off on his own hook, and I wash my
hands of the scamp.

"Hoping you are in health, I remain,
"Your obedient servant,
"R. GREENWOOD."

Ruth sat stunned. The bell rang, but she heeded not. Alice came up, but
she took no notice of her anxious inquiries. Hearing of her condition,
Harry Groombridge left the dinner-table and went to her.

"She's had some shock; this letter doubtless! May I read it, Ruth?" he
asked.

The girl mutely assented.

The young man glanced through the contents, and handed it to his mother,
who had followed him. She read it, and they exchanged looks. Then Mrs.
Groombridge took one of Ruth's cold hands in hers, and said:

"Ruth, my dear girl, this letter is a hoax, I am persuaded, for you know
John's brother is an unprincipled man. I think he has quarrelled with
John, and then revenged himself by writing to you in this cruel way. I
can't think John has gone so far wrong as to talk of you before his
brother in such a manner. My impression is, that he was glad to get your
letter, and left his brother, resolving to prove himself worthy of you
yet."

"That's about it," remarked Harry.

Ruth gasped with a sense of relief.

"Oh, if I could but think so; but then, why doesn't he write himself?"