and that it has the power of recognising them, and all spiritual
beings who pass by, and that it bows in deference to them as they
waft along. Its Welsh name is Maneg Ellyllyn--the good people's
glove; and hence, I imagine, our folk's-glove or fox-glove."

"It's a very pretty fancy," said Ruth, much interested, and wishing
that he would go on, without expecting her to reply.

But they were already at the wooden bridge; he led her across, and
then, bowing his adieu, he had taken a different path even before
Ruth had thanked him for his attention.

It was an adventure to tell Mr Bellingham, however; and it roused and
amused him till dinner-time came, after which he sauntered forth with
a cigar.

"Ruth," said he, when he returned, "I've seen your little hunchback.
He looks like Riquet-with-the-Tuft. He's not a gentleman, though. If
it had not been for his deformity, I should not have made him out
from your description; you called him a gentleman."

"And don't you, sir?" asked Ruth, surprised.

"Oh, no! he's regularly shabby and seedy in his appearance; lodging,
too, the ostler told me, over that horrible candle and cheese shop,
the smell of which is insufferable twenty yards off--no gentleman
could endure it; he must be a traveller or artist, or something of
that kind."

"Did you see his face, sir?" asked Ruth.

"No; but a man's back--his _tout ensemble_ has character enough in it
to decide his rank."

"His face was very singular; quite beautiful!" said she, softly; but
the subject did not interest Mr Bellingham, and he let it drop.

CHAPTER VI

Troubles Gather About Ruth

The next day the weather was brave and glorious; a perfect "bridal
of the earth and sky;" and every one turned out of the inn to enjoy
the fresh beauty of nature. Ruth was quite unconscious of being the
object of remark, and, in her light, rapid passings to and fro, had
never looked at the doors and windows, where many watchers stood
observing her, and commenting upon her situation or her appearance.

"She's a very lovely creature," said one gentleman, rising from the
breakfast-table to catch a glimpse of her as she entered from her
morning's ramble. "Not above sixteen, I should think. Very modest and
innocent-looking in her white gown!"

His wife, busy administering to the wants of a fine little boy, could
only say (without seeing the young girl's modest ways, and gentle,
downcast countenance):

"Well! I do think it's a sham