l in his visit, Ruth had
determined not to interrupt a family meeting, in which she imagined she
might be _de trop_.

"My fine tact," she thought, "will enable them to have a quiet talk
among themselves till nearly dinner-time. But I must not neglect myself
any longer. The Hall is the nearer, and the drive is shady; but, to put
against that, Mabel will insist on showing me her new gowns, and Mrs.
Thursby will make her usual remarks about Aunt Fanny. No; in spite of
that burning expanse of glebe, I will go to tea at the rectory. I have
not seen Uncle John for a week, and--who knows?--perhaps Aunt Fanny may
be out."

So the gloves were put on, the crisp white dress shaken out, the parasol
put up, and Ruth took the narrow church path across the fields up to
Slumberleigh Rectory.

For many years since the death of her parents, Ruth Deyncourt had lived
with her grandmother, a wealthy, witty, and wise old lady, whose house
had been considered one of the pleasantest in London by those to whom
pleasant houses are open.

Lady Deyncourt, a beauty in her youth, a beauty in middle life, a beauty
in her old age, had seen and known all the marked men of the last two
generations, and had reminiscences to tell which increased in point and
flavor, like old wine, the longer they were kept. She had frequented as
a girl the Misses Berrys' drawing-room, and people were wont to say that
hers was the nearest approach to a _salon_ which remained after the
Misses Berry disappeared. She had married a grave politician, a rising
man, whom she had pushed into a knighthood, and at one time into the
ministry. If he had died before he could make her the wife of a premier,
the disappointment had not been without its alleviations. She had never
possessed much talent for domestic life, and, the yoke once removed, she
had not felt the least inclination to take it upon herself again. As a
widow, her way through life was one long triumphal procession. She had
daughters--dull, tall, serious girls, with whom she had nothing in
common, whom she educated well, brought out, laced in, and then married,
one after another, relinquishing the last with the utmost cheerfulness,
and refusing the condolences of friends on her lonely position with her
usual frankness.

But her son, her only son, she had loved. He was like her, and
understood her, and was at ease with her, as her daughters had never
been. The trouble of her life was the death of her son. She got ove