formerly, while Ruth was still my mother's companion. She was
always kind to me, and seemed glad if she were able to do little
sisterly acts, but we were never alone together, and never were there
any confidences between us.

On my twenty-first birthday there were great festivities at our house.
All the tenant farmers, their wives, and their children, together with
the cottagers and labourers on the estate, were invited. These, with
the neighbouring gentry, made a gay scene. There was one vacant place,
however, which largely spoiled the enjoyment of the day. This was my
brother Wilfred's. He had been pressed to return home, but had refused
to do so, even for the celebration of my coming of age. Indeed, he
intimated that he did not wish to do so until his three years of
college life should come to an end.

My father was annoyed at this; but my mother said not a word. It
seemed to me that she had expected things to turn out so, and was not
at all surprised. Her behaviour to me after my birthday was more cold
than ever. She took no pains to make herself friendly towards me, yet,
unless Deborah Teague were right, she was my mother.

The months slipped rapidly by, until three years had elapsed since
Wilfred had gone to Oxford, and now he was daily expected to return.

During that time none of us had seen him except my father and mother,
who had travelled to Oxford specially for that purpose. My two sisters
often speculated what he would be like, how he would act, while Ruth,
too, seemed to look forward with great pleasure to his return.

Ruth had grown to be a beautiful woman. She was by no means tall or
stately, but she was as fair as a spring morning, and lovely beyond
compare. Great pains had been taken with her education, and this,
added to her personal charms, caused her to be envied for miles around
by girls of her own age.

Her old friend Mr. Inch had remained at our house all this time, and
tried to gratify her every wish. He was friendly with Wilfred, and I
found out that they corresponded regularly. With me, however, he was
not nearly so friendly. He was always polite, almost painfully so; but
he never looked me straight in the face, and often, I thought, regarded
me with dislike. I explained this, partly by the fact of my uncouth
ways, and partly by his intimacy with my mother, who regarded him with
great favour.

At length the day arrived when Wilfred came back. I shall never forget
it, f