culars sank unconsciously into Ruth's mind; but they
did not rise to the surface, and become perceptible, for a length of
time. She was weary, and much depressed. Even the very kindness that
ministered to her was overpowering. But over the dark, misty moor a
little light shone,--a beacon; and on that she fixed her eyes, and
struggled out of her present deep dejection--the little child that
was coming to her!

Mr Benson was as languid and weary as Ruth, and was silent during all
this bustle and preparation. His silence was more grateful to Ruth
than Miss Benson's many words, although she felt their kindness.
After tea, Miss Benson took her upstairs to her room. The white
dimity bed, and the walls, stained green, had something of the
colouring and purity of effect of a snowdrop; while the floor, rubbed
with a mixture that turned it into a rich dark brown, suggested
the idea of the garden-mould out of which the snowdrop grows. As
Miss Benson helped the pale Ruth to undress, her voice became less
full-toned and hurried; the hush of approaching night subdued her
into a softened, solemn kind of tenderness, and the murmured blessing
sounded like granted prayer.

When Miss Benson came downstairs, she found her brother reading
some letters which had been received during his absence. She went
and softly shut the door of communication between the parlour and
the kitchen; and then, fetching a grey worsted stocking which
she was knitting, sat down near him, her eyes not looking at her
work but fixed on the fire; while the eternal rapid click of the
knitting-needles broke the silence of the room, with a sound as
monotonous and incessant as the noise of a hand-loom. She expected
him to speak, but he did not. She enjoyed an examination into, and
discussion of, her feelings; it was an interest and amusement to her,
while he dreaded and avoided all such conversation. There were times
when his feelings, which were always earnest, and sometimes morbid,
burst forth, and defied control, and overwhelmed him; when a force
was upon him compelling him to speak. But he, in general, strove to
preserve his composure, from a fear of the compelling pain of such
times, and the consequent exhaustion. His heart had been very full
of Ruth all day long, and he was afraid of his sister beginning the
subject; so he read on, or seemed to do so, though he hardly saw the
letter he held before him. It was a great relief to him when Sally
threw open the middl