ed heavy weights fixed to the ground; they would
not move. All at once, just near the shore, a great black whirlwind
of waves clutched her back to her pursuer; she threw Leonard on to
land, which was safety; but whether he reached it or no, or was swept
back like her into a mysterious something too dreadful to be borne,
she did not know, for the terror awakened her. At first the dream
seemed yet a reality, and she thought that the pursuer was couched
even there, in that very room, and the great boom of the sea was
still in her ears. But as full consciousness returned, she saw
herself safe in the dear old room--the haven of rest--the shelter
from storms. A bright fire was glowing in the little old-fashioned,
cup-shaped grate, niched into a corner of the wall, and guarded on
either side by whitewashed bricks, which rested on hobs. On one of
these the kettle hummed and buzzed, within two points of boiling
whenever she or Leonard required tea. In her dream that home-like
sound had been the roaring of the relentless sea, creeping swiftly on
to seize its prey. Miss Benson sat by the fire, motionless and still;
it was too dark to read any longer without a candle; but yet on the
ceiling and upper part of the walls the golden light of the setting
sun was slowly moving--so slow, and yet a motion gives the feeling of
rest to the weary yet more than perfect stillness. The old clock on
the staircase told its monotonous click-clack, in that soothing way
which more marked the quiet of the house than disturbed with any
sense of sound. Leonard still slept that renovating slumber, almost
in her arms, far from that fatal pursuing sea, with its human form of
cruelty. The dream was a vision; the reality which prompted the dream
was over and past--Leonard was safe--she was safe; all this loosened
the frozen springs, and they gushed forth in her heart, and her lips
moved in accordance with her thoughts.

"What were you saying, my darling?" said Miss Benson, who caught
sight of the motion, and fancied she was asking for something. Miss
Benson bent over the side of the bed on which Ruth lay, to catch the
low tones of her voice.

"I only said," replied Ruth, timidly, "thank God! I have so much to
thank Him for, you don't know."

"My dear, I am sure we have all of us cause to be thankful that our
boy is spared. See! he is wakening up; and we will have a cup of tea
together."

Leonard strode on to perfect health; but he was made older in
cha