h had more light. She did not look up to thank him, for
she felt ashamed that he should have seen the smile which she had
caught from him.

"I am sorry I have been so long, ma'am," said she, gently, as she
finished her work. "I was afraid it might tear out again if I did not
do it carefully." She rose.

"I would rather have had it torn than have missed that charming
galop," said the young lady, shaking out her dress as a bird shakes
its plumage. "Shall we go, Mr Bellingham?" looking up at him.

He was surprised that she gave no word or sign of thanks to the
assistant. He took up a camellia that some one had left on the table.

"Allow me, Miss Duncombe, to give this in your name to this young
lady, as thanks for her dexterous help."

"Oh--of course," said she.

Ruth received the flower silently, but with a grave, modest motion of
her head. They had gone, and she was once more alone. Presently, her
companions returned.

"What was the matter with Miss Duncombe? Did she come here?" asked
they.

"Only her lace dress was torn, and I mended it," answered Ruth,
quietly.

"Did Mr Bellingham come with her? They say he's going to be married
to her; did he come, Ruth?"

"Yes," said Ruth, and relapsed into silence.

Mr Bellingham danced on gaily and merrily through the night, and
flirted with Miss Duncombe, as he thought good. But he looked often
to the side-door where the milliner's apprentices stood; and once he
recognised the tall, slight figure, and the rich auburn hair of the
girl in black; and then his eye sought for the camellia. It was
there, snowy white in her bosom. And he danced on more gaily than
ever.

The cold grey dawn was drearily lighting up the streets when Mrs
Mason and her company returned home. The lamps were extinguished, yet
the shutters of the shops and dwelling-houses were not opened. All
sounds had an echo unheard by day. One or two houseless beggars sat
on doorsteps, and, shivering, slept, with heads bowed on their knees,
or resting against the cold hard support afforded by the wall.

Ruth felt as if a dream had melted away, and she were once more in
the actual world. How long it would be, even in the most favourable
chance, before she should again enter the shire-hall! or hear a band
of music! or even see again those bright, happy people--as much
without any semblance of care or woe as if they belonged to another
race of beings. Had they ever to deny themselves a wish, much less
a want?