' morning. She and Leonard were
to be off for the day somewhere or other with them Bradshaw girls."

"Then she has had no dinner?"

"Not here, at any rate. I can't answer for what she may have done at
other places."

"And Leonard--where is he?"

"How should I know? With his mother, I suppose. Leastways, that was
what was fixed on. I've enough to do of my own, without routing after
other folks."

She went on scouring in no very good temper. Mr Benson stood silent
for a moment.

"Sally," he said, "I want a cup of tea. Will you make it as soon as
you can; and some dry toast too? I'll come for it in ten minutes."

Struck by something in his voice, she looked up at him for the first
time.

"What ha' ye been doing to yourself, to look so grim and grey? Tiring
yourself all to tatters, looking after some naught, I'll be bound!
Well! well! I mun make ye your tea, I reckon; but I did hope as you
grew older you'd ha' grown wiser!"

Mr Benson made no reply, but went to look for Leonard, hoping that
the child's presence might bring back to his mother the power of
self-control. He opened the parlour-door, and looked in, but saw no
one. Just as he was shutting it, however, he heard a deep, broken,
sobbing sigh; and, guided by the sound, he found the boy lying on the
floor, fast asleep, but with his features all swollen and disfigured
by passionate crying.

"Poor child! This was what she meant, then," thought Mr Benson. "He
has begun his share of the sorrows too," he continued, pitifully.
"No! I will not waken him back to consciousness." So he returned
alone into the study. Ruth sat where he had placed her, her head bent
back, and her eyes shut. But when he came in she started up.

"I must be going," she said, in a hurried way.

"Nay, Ruth, you must not go. You must not leave us. We cannot do
without you. We love you too much."

"Love me!" said she, looking at him wistfully. As she looked, her
eyes filled slowly with tears. It was a good sign, and Mr Benson took
heart to go on.

"Yes! Ruth. You know we do. You may have other things to fill up your
mind just now, but you know we love you; and nothing can alter our
love for you. You ought not to have thought of leaving us. You would
not, if you had been quite well."

"Do you know what has happened?" she asked, in a low, hoarse voice.

"Yes. I know all," he answered. "It makes no difference to us. Why
should it?"

"Oh! Mr Benson, don't you know that my shame is dis