his birth. Thus she reasoned in her hot, dull brain;
and shaped her plans in accordance.

Leonard stole downstairs noiselessly. He listened to find some
quiet place where he could hide himself. The house was very still.
Miss Benson thought the purposed expedition had taken place, and
never dreamed but that Ruth and Leonard were on distant, sunny
Scaurside-hill; and after a very early dinner, she had set out to
drink tea with a farmer's wife who lived in the country two or three
miles off. Mr Benson meant to have gone with her; but while they were
at dinner, he had received an unusually authoritative note from Mr
Bradshaw desiring to speak with him, so he went to that gentleman's
house instead. Sally was busy in her kitchen, making a great noise
(not unlike a groom rubbing down a horse) over her cleaning.
Leonard stole into the sitting-room, and crouched behind the large
old-fashioned sofa to ease his sore, aching heart, by crying with all
the prodigal waste and abandonment of childhood.

Mr Benson was shown into Mr Bradshaw's own particular room. The
latter gentleman was walking up and down, and it was easy to perceive
that something had occurred to chafe him to great anger.

"Sit down, sir!" said he to Mr Benson, nodding to a chair.

Mr Benson sat down. But Mr Bradshaw continued his walk for a few
minutes longer without speaking. Then he stopped abruptly, right in
front of Mr Benson; and in a voice which he tried to render calm, but
which trembled with passion--with a face glowing purple as he thought
of his wrongs (and real wrongs they were), he began:

"Mr Benson, I have sent for you to ask--I am almost too indignant
at the bare suspicion to speak as becomes me--but did you--I really
shall be obliged to beg your pardon, if you are as much in the dark
as I was yesterday as to the character of that woman who lives under
your roof?"

There was no answer from Mr Benson. Mr Bradshaw looked at him very
earnestly. His eyes were fixed on the ground--he made no inquiry--he
uttered no expression of wonder or dismay. Mr Bradshaw ground his
foot on the floor with gathering rage; but just as he was about to
speak, Mr Benson rose up--a poor deformed old man--before the stern
and portly figure that was swelling and panting with passion.

"Hear me, sir!" (stretching out his hand as if to avert the words
which were impending). "Nothing you can say, can upbraid me like my
own conscience; no degradation you can inflict, by word