t she had been saying about
Ruth?

"Oh! I thought it was better to explain it thoroughly--I mean, to
tell the story we wished to have believed once for all--you know we
agreed about that, Thurstan?" deprecatingly.

"Yes; but I heard you saying you believed her husband had been a
young surgeon, did I not?"

"Well, Thurstan, you know he must have been something; and young
surgeons are so in the way of dying, it seemed very natural.
Besides," said she, with sudden boldness, "I do think I've a talent
for fiction, it is so pleasant to invent, and make the incidents
dovetail together; and after all, if we are to tell a lie, we may as
well do it thoroughly, or else it's of no use. A bungling lie would
be worse than useless. And, Thurstan--it may be very wrong--but
I believe--I am afraid I enjoy not being fettered by truth. Don't
look so grave. You know it is necessary, if ever it was, to tell
falsehoods now; and don't be angry with me because I do it well."

He was shading his eyes with his hand, and did not speak for some
time. At last he said:

"If it were not for the child, I would tell all; but the world is so
cruel. You don't know how this apparent necessity for falsehood pains
me, Faith, or you would not invent all these details, which are so
many additional lies."

"Well, well! I will restrain myself if I have to talk about Ruth
again. But Mrs Bradshaw will tell every one who need to know. You
don't wish me to contradict it, Thurstan, surely--it was such a
pretty, probable story."

"Faith! I hope God will forgive us if we are doing wrong; and pray,
dear, don't add one unnecessary word that is not true."

Another day elapsed, and then it was Sunday; and the house seemed
filled with a deep peace. Even Sally's movements were less hasty and
abrupt. Mr Benson seemed invested with a new dignity, which made his
bodily deformity be forgotten in his calm, grave composure of spirit.
Every trace of week-day occupation was put away; the night before, a
bright new handsome tablecloth had been smoothed down over the table,
and the jars had been freshly filled with flowers. Sunday was a
festival and a holy day in the house. After the very early breakfast,
little feet pattered into Mr Benson's study, for he had a class for
boys--a sort of domestic Sunday-school, only that there was more
talking between teacher and pupils, than dry, absolute lessons going
on. Miss Benson, too, had her little, neat-tippeted maidens sitting
wi