mother
mates at the age of fifty, Diana--who started with all the advantages
of looks--withers upon the maiden thorn. . . ."

His letters, every one, concluded with protests of affection.
She rejoiced in them. But it was now certain that he could not
return in time.

At length, as her day drew near, she wrote to him, conceiving this to
be her duty. She knew that he would take a blow from what she had to
tell, and covered it up cleverly, lightly covering all her own dread.
She hoped the child would be a boy. ("But why do I hope it?" she
asked herself as she penned the words, and thought of Dicky.)

She said nothing of Mr. Silk's treachery; nothing of her ostracism.
This indeed, during the later months, she recognised for the blessing
it was.

Towards the end she felt a strange longing to have her mother near,
close at hand, for her lying-in. The poor silly soul could not travel
alone. . . . Ruth considered this and hit on the happy inspiration of
inviting Mrs. Strongtharm to bring her. Tatty was useless, and among
the few women who had been kind Mrs. Strongtharm had been the
kindest.

Ruth sat down and penned a letter; and Mrs. Strongtharm, unable to
write, responded valiantly. She arrived in a cart, with Mrs.
Josselin at her side; and straightway alighting and neglecting Mrs.
Josselin, sailed into a seventh heaven of womanly fuss. She examined
the baby-clothes critically.

"Made with your own pretty hands--and with all this mort o' servants
tumblin' over one another to help ye. But 'tis nat'ral. . . .
It came to nothing with me, but I know. And expectin' a boy o'
course. . . . La! ye blushin' one, don't I know the way of it!"

When Ruth's travail came on her the three were gathered by
candle-light in Sir Oliver's dressing-room. Beyond the door,
attended by her maid and a man-midwife, Ruth shut her teeth upon her
throes. So the prologue opens.

PROLOGUE.

_Mrs. Josselin sits in an armchair, regarding the pattern of the
carpet with a silly air of self-importance; Mrs. Strongtharm in a
chair opposite. By the window Miss Quiney, pulling at her knuckles,
stares out through the dark panes. A clock strikes_.

_Miss Quiney (with a nervous start)_. Four o'clock . . .
nine hours. . . .

_Mrs. Strongtharm._ More. The pains took her soon after six. . . .
When her bell rang I looked at the clock. I remember.

_Miss Quiney_. My poor Ruth.

_Mrs. Strongtharm_.