aid Miss Benson,
tenderly. "She would have-- But I'll talk to you about my mother some
other time. Let me call you Mrs Denbigh. It will do very well, too.
People will think you are a distant relation."

When she told Mr Benson this choice of name, he was rather
sorry; it was like his sister's impulsive kindness--impulsive in
everything--and he could imagine how Ruth's humility had touched her.
He was sorry, but he said nothing.

And now the letter was written home, announcing the probable arrival
of the brother and sister on a certain day, "with a distant relation,
early left a widow," as Miss Benson expressed it. She desired the
spare room might be prepared, and made every provision she could
think of for Ruth's comfort; for Ruth still remained feeble and weak.

When the black gown, at which she had stitched away incessantly,
was finished--when nothing remained but to rest for the next day's
journey--Ruth could not sit still. She wandered from window to
window, learning off each rock and tree by heart. Each had its tale,
which it was agony to remember; but which it would have been worse
agony to forget. The sound of running waters she heard that quiet
evening, was in her ears as she lay on her death-bed; so well had she
learnt their tune.

And now all was over. She had driven in to Llan-dhu, sitting by her
lover's side, living in the bright present, and strangely forgetful
of the past or the future; she had dreamed out her dream, and she had
awakened from the vision of love. She walked slowly and sadly down
the long hill, her tears fast falling, but as quickly wiped away;
while she strove to make steady the low quivering voice which was
often called upon to answer some remark of Miss Benson's.

They had to wait for the coach. Ruth buried her face in some flowers
which Mrs Hughes had given her on parting; and was startled when
the mail drew up with a sudden pull, which almost threw the horses
on their haunches. She was placed inside, and the coach had set
off again, before she was fully aware that Mr and Miss Benson
were travelling on the outside; but it was a relief to feel she
might now cry without exciting their notice. The shadow of a heavy
thunder-cloud was on the valley, but the little upland village church
(that showed the spot in which so much of her life had passed) stood
out clear in the sunshine. She grudged the tears that blinded her
as she gazed. There was one passenger, who tried after a while to
co