ite to your uncle Francis), it would be as well not to refer to it
before--in fact, not to mention it to Mrs. Alwynn. Your dear aunt's
warm heart and conversational bent make it almost impossible for her to
refrain from speaking of anything that interests her; and indeed, even
if she does not say anything in so many words, I have observed that
opinions are sometimes formed by others as to the subject on which she
is silent, by her manner when any chance allusion is made to it."

Ruth heartily agreed. She had been dreading the searching catechism
through which Mrs. Alwynn would certainly put her--the minute inquiries
as to her dress, the hour, the place; whether it had been "standing up
or sitting down;" all her questions of course interwoven with personal
reminiscences of "how John had done it," and her own emotion at the
time.

It was with no small degree of relief at the postponement of that evil
hour that Ruth entered the house. As she did so a faint sound reached
her ear. It was that of a musical-box.

"Dear! dear!" said Mr. Alwynn, as he followed her. "It is a fine day.
Your aunt must be ill."

For the moment Ruth did not understand the connection of ideas in his
mind, until she suddenly remembered the musical-box, which, Mrs. Alwynn
had often told her, was "so nice and cheery on a wet day, or in time of
illness."

She hurriedly entered the drawing-room, followed by Mr. Alwynn, where
the first object that met her view was Mrs. Alwynn extended on the sofa,
arrayed in what she called her tea-gown, a loose robe of blue cretonne,
with a large vine-leaf pattern twining over it, which broke out into
grapes at intervals. Ruth knew that garment well. It came on only when
Mrs. Alwynn was suffering. She had worn it last during a period of
entire mental prostration, which had succeeded all too soon an exciting
discovery of mushrooms in the glebe. Mr. Alwynn's heart and Ruth's sank
as they caught sight of it again.

With a dignity befitting the occasion, Mrs. Alwynn recounted in detail
the various ways in which she had employed herself after their departure
the previous evening, up to the exact moment when she slipped going
up-stairs, and sprained her ankle, in a blue and green manner that had
quite alarmed the doctor when he had seen it, and compared with which
Mrs. Thursby's gathered finger in the spring was a mere bagatelle.

"Mrs. Thursby stayed in bed when her finger was bad," said Mrs. Alwynn
to Ruth, when Mr. Al