e
flight of time. Fifty, sixty, or seventy, she might be--not more than
the last, not less than the first--though her usual answer to any
circuitous inquiry as to her age was now (what it had been for many
years past), "I'm feared I shall never see thirty again."

Then as to the house. It was not one where the sitting-rooms are
refurnished every two or three years; not now, even (since Ruth came
to share their living) a place where, as an article grew shabby or
worn, a new one was purchased. The furniture looked poor, and the
carpets almost threadbare; but there was such a dainty spirit of
cleanliness abroad, such exquisite neatness of repair, and altogether
so bright and cheerful a look about the rooms--everything so
above-board--no shifts to conceal poverty under flimsy ornament--that
many a splendid drawing-room would give less pleasure to those who
could see evidences of character in inanimate things. But whatever
poverty there might be in the house, there was full luxuriance in
the little square wall-encircled garden, on two sides of which the
parlour and kitchen looked. The laburnum-tree, which when Ruth came
was like a twig stuck into the ground, was now a golden glory in
spring, and a pleasant shade in summer. The wild hop, that Mr Benson
had brought home from one of his country rambles, and planted by the
parlour-window, while Leonard was yet a baby in his mother's arms,
was now a garland over the casement, hanging down long tendrils,
that waved in the breezes, and threw pleasant shadows and traceries,
like some Bacchanalian carving, on the parlour-walls, at "morn or
dusky eve." The yellow rose had clambered up to the window of Mr
Benson's bedroom, and its blossom-laden branches were supported by a
jargonelle pear-tree rich in autumnal fruit.

But, perhaps, in Ruth herself there was the greatest external change;
for of the change which had gone on in her heart, and mind, and soul,
or if there had been any, neither she nor any one around her was
conscious; but sometimes Miss Benson did say to Sally, "How very
handsome Ruth is grown!" To which Sally made ungracious answer, "Yes!
she's well enough. Beauty is deceitful, and favour a snare, and I'm
thankful the Lord has spared me from such man-traps and spring-guns."
But even Sally could not help secretly admiring Ruth. If her early
brilliancy of colour was gone, a clear ivory skin, as smooth as
satin, told of complete and perfect health, and was as lovely, if not