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´╗┐Title: Ruth Arnold - or, the Country Cousin
Author: Byerley, Lucy
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Ruth Arnold - or, the Country Cousin" ***

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Or, The Country Cousin



The Religious Tract Society
56, Paternoster Row; 65, St. Paul's Churchyard and 164, Piccadilly
Butler & Tanner,
The Selwood Printing Works,
Frome, and London.



       I. A Letter

      II. Talking it Over

     III. Ruth's Decision

      IV. The Journey

       V. Cousins

      VI. Stonegate

     VII. A Poor Relation

    VIII. Sea-side Pleasures

      IX. The Picnic

       X. Busyborough

      XI. School-girl Gossip

     XII. Julia's Humiliation

    XIII. Hard at Work

     XIV. An Adventure

      XV. Examination

     XVI. A Downward Step

    XVII. The Prize

   XVIII. So as by Fire

     XIX. Living it Down

      XX. Home Again


Or, The Country Cousin.



School was over, and the holidays were beginning once more, summer
holidays, with all their promise of pleasure for dwellers in the
country. The scent of sweet new hay was borne on the afternoon breeze,
and the broad sunlight lay on fields of waving corn which would soon be
ready for the sickle, and on green meadows from which the hay was being

Ruth Arnold slowly wended her way home-wards along the hot dusty road,
turned down a shady green lane, opened a little gate and walked up the
garden path; and then, instead of running indoors as usual, she sat down
in the little rose-covered porch and looked rather thoughtfully at the
book in her hand.

It was a new book, a prize which had been awarded her that afternoon;
but she felt very little pride in it, for she had known all through the
half-year that the prize would be hers unless she was very idle or lazy.
Nor did she anticipate much pleasure in reading it, for it was only a
new English grammar, and grammar was not a study in which she felt
particularly interested at that moment.

It was not often that Ruth sat down to think, for she was a merry lively
girl; but this afternoon she felt rather discontented with her lot. The
truth was that she had been at Miss Green's school, the only one in the
village, ever since she was six years old; and now she had turned
fourteen, and began to feel some contempt for the elementary catechisms
which had been her only lesson-books, and which were certainly not
calculated to make learning attractive or interesting. The mode of
instruction at Miss Green's was the old-fashioned one of saying lessons
by rote from the said catechisms, and when the pupils had reached the
end of the book they had to begin again at the first chapter.

"I'm sure I don't know what I've learnt this half-year," said Ruth to
herself. "I can't remember learning a single thing which I didn't know
six months ago; and yet mother says that I must not leave school until I
am fifteen. I wonder what books they use in large boarding-schools, and
if they ever get beyond Mangnall's Questions in the first class. I
suppose I shouldn't trouble about it if it were not for father's
teaching us in the winter evenings; but he knows so much, that we see
how ignorant we are."

"I didn't know that you were at home, Ruth. How long have you been
here?" asked her mother's voice.

"Only a few minutes."

"Where is your prize? And why did you not show it to me?"


"Here it is, mother; but I don't much care for it. There is so little
credit in getting a prize at Miss Green's, where one makes so little
progress, and has to do the same thing over and over again."

"Yes," said Mrs. Arnold with a little sigh, "and so you will find it in
life, dear, the same thing over and over again, every day and every
year. But now," she added smiling, "as everyone is busy in the
hay-field, and baby has to be nursed and the cows to be milked every
day, will you help me to do one thing or the other?"

"Yes," said Ruth as she went to put on a large blue pinafore; "I'll go
and help Mary with the milking."

Five minutes later she was seated on a low stool beside her favourite
cow, Beauty, which had been reared on the farm, and named by Ruth
herself, who petted and talked to her like an old friend. The afternoon
was very warm, but still and sweet and quiet, with the summer hush upon
everything, even the lowing of the cows in the farm-yard, the murmur of
the brook, and the voices of the workers in the distant hay-field.

"Ah me, old Beauty!" sighed Ruth, as she pressed the milk into the pail,
"mother says that it is the same thing over and over again all our
lives, and I suppose it is true, but I wish I could have something

Beauty only lowed; but if she could have spoken English she might have
said, "If _you_ find life monotonous, what must it be for me? In the
morning I rise and crop the grass, then I come in to be milked. I go
back to the meadow and bathe in the stream or eat as much grass as I
want; in the afternoon I lie under the shade of the trees and chew the
cud; and in the evening I come again to be milked, and once more return
to the meadows. If I have a calf of my own, it is taken from me and
sent--I know not where. Yes, it is the same thing over and over again.
Yet I am quite content."

Whatever Beauty meant as she lowed and looked at Ruth with her great
patient eyes, the young girl did not understand, but went on thinking
aloud: "Yes, it is breakfast, dinner, tea and supper every day, and
mother has to see to it all; and the children to be washed and dressed
and nursed, and the cows to be milked, and the cream to be skimmed; and
then every year father has the ploughing, and sowing, and haying, and
the har----"

"Ah, Ruth, I see you are making yourself useful," cried her father, as
he entered the farm-yard followed by two merry looking boys aged
respectively seventeen and twelve. It was evident from a single glance
that they were Ruth's brothers, although their hands and faces were
brown and sunburnt, and Will, the elder, was fully a head taller than
his sister.

"Guess what Will has got for you, Ruth!" cried roguish little Ned.

"Oh, Will!" she exclaimed, looking up brightly, all her grave thoughts
gone in a moment, "have you brought a new plant for my garden? No! Has
Annie Price sent the pattern she promised for my wool-work? Well then,
is it the new tune-book you were talking of yesterday, with both the
music and words?"

"No, you are quite wrong; and as I can't tell whether it is anything
good or bad, I may as well give it to you at once. It's from a girl, I
think," continued Will, as he took a letter from his pocket.

"A letter for me! Who can it be from? Yes, I see it comes from a girl by
the writing. What a pretty hand! ever so much better than mine; and here
is the post-mark--Busyborough; it must be from Cousin Julia," she said
as she turned the letter over.

Then she opened it and began to read, while her brothers stood by full
of interest, and saw a look of mingled wonder, surprise, and delight
spread over her face. They waited as long as their curiosity would
permit, and then both cried eagerly, "What does she say? What is it all


"She wants me--that is, aunt has invited me--to spend my holidays with
them at the sea-side," said Ruth, speaking very slowly, and looking as
if she could hardly understand the idea of such a piece of good fortune
coming in her way. "But there," she added with a sigh, as she refolded
the letter and put it into her pocket and tried to banish the visions of
brightness it had called forth, "of course it is quite out of the
question. I couldn't go away now when every one is so busy."

She walked slowly back to the house, and tried not to think of the
bright dream of pleasure the letter had suggested; but this was not an
easy matter, as her father and mother were already sitting at the
tea-table talking over the same subject, for Mrs. Arnold had also
received a letter from Busyborough that afternoon.



"Have you read your cousin's letter, Ruth?" asked her mother as she took
her seat. "Why, what makes you look so unhappy?" she exclaimed,
observing the girl's grave face.

"It's very silly, I know, mother; and I didn't mean to be vexed about
it," she began, "but Julia said something about my going to the sea-side
with them to spend the holidays. Of course I know very well that you
couldn't spare me,--but I can't help crying--just a minute, mother, that
is all," said Ruth, while her tears dropped slowly.

"Don't cry, child; we'll talk it over to-night, and see what can be
done," said her father cheerfully.

"But, father!" cried Ruth, starting up in surprise, her tears quite
forgotten, "you don't think _really_ that there is any chance of my
going, do you? Just see how busy you are with the haying, and then there
are the boys and the little ones----"

"Well, well, your mother and I will talk it over," he repeated, as he
took up his hat and set out again for the hay-field.

The summer evening soon slipped away, and Ruth knew better than to worry
her mother by asking foolish questions; but when supper was over, and
her head lay at rest upon the pillow, her brain was busy, and it was a
long time before sleep overtook her. Delightful visions of sea-side
places such as she had read of in her favourite books, of picnics and
boating, of rambles in search of shells, rare stones and long sea-weeds,
filled her mind; and as she heard the monotonous sounds of her parents'
voices talking in low tones in the room beneath her, and knew that they
were discussing the important question Was she to go or stay? her
impatience almost got the better of her, and she longed to run
downstairs and take part in the conversation.

Presently the voices ceased, there were footsteps on the stairs, the
light of a candle showed through the chink of her door, the footsteps
receded and a door was shut, and Ruth knew that the decision was made
and her mother had gone to bed. And as she could not know the result of
the conversation that night, she very wisely closed her eyes and went to

Early the next morning she was awakened by the sun shining in at her
window. She rose at once, dressed quickly, and was soon downstairs, but
not before her mother, who was busily preparing the breakfast. There was
so much to be done before the meal was ready, so much chatter over it,
and so many last words to the boys and their father before they set out
for the hay-field, that Ruth could not find an opportunity to ask her
mother the question that was burning upon her lips, until all trace of
the meal was removed and the children had gone to play in the orchard.

Then she went upstairs to help her make the beds, and there was time for
a quiet chat.

Mrs. Arnold began by inquiring, "What did your cousin say in her letter

"She asked if I could spend my holidays with them at the sea-side,"
replied Ruth, blushing with joy at the very thought.

"And you would like to go?"

"Oh yes, indeed I should, very, very much; that is--of course--if you
could spare me," she added hesitatingly.

"I suppose then that you do not know what your aunt has suggested. She
writes to know if we will spare you, not only for the holidays, but for
a whole twelvemonth, to be a companion to your cousin and go to school
with her (What are you doing with the pillows, Ruth?), to share her
studies and amusements."

"Should I see none of you for a whole year?"

"I am not sure; that would depend upon your aunt."

"But--mother--you don't think of letting me go, do you?" asked Ruth,
almost over-whelmed with pleasure and surprise.

"I don't know. Your father thinks it would be good for you, but I am not
sure, Ruth. I am afraid whether, after living in a handsome
well-appointed house, waited upon by servants, and surrounded with
comforts and luxuries, you would grow discontented with our quiet
country life. I know you love your home now, but I fear lest a life in
town should spoil you, and make you no longer our little Ruth, but a
grown-up young lady, who would feel herself above our simple joys and
pleasures, and only bring herself to tolerate them from a sense of

"Mother, mother!" cried Ruth, bursting into tears, "don't talk so. I'll
never go away. How can you think so of me?"

"Perhaps I have done wrong to say so much to you, darling," replied her
mother; "but I must tell you that your father does not fear anything of
the sort for you. He says that you need to go to a good school, and that
he is thankful for the opportunity which is now offered. He feels sure
that you would be happy with his sister, and does not fear your growing
discontented with home. Besides, as he says, when you come back you will
be able to teach the younger children, and that will be a good object to
have in view while you are studying. So we have determined to leave it
for you to decide. We will give you to-day to think it over, and
to-morrow you must tell us what you wish to do. Pray over it, Ruth, and
don't let anything I have said prejudice you against the idea of going.
Indeed, dear," she added in a lower tone, "I don't think I should have
any fear for you if I were sure that you were not going alone, if I knew
that you had an almighty Friend to be with you and guide you in the
right way."

It was very rarely that Mrs. Arnold said so much to any of her children,
and Ruth was quite overcome. She ran off to her own little room to give
vent to her feelings, and to think over all that she had heard.



For the first few moments Ruth felt quite determined not to leave home;
but as she thought over the advantages and disadvantages of the plan her
resolution wavered. How often she had wished, though vainly, to go to a
good boarding-school! and now there was an opportunity for her to have a
twelvemonth's education, without the great drawback of living at school
among strangers and losing the comforts and freedom of home. It was true
that she had only seen her aunt for a short time several years before,
and her cousins were quite unknown, except for the short notes she
usually received at Christmas, with a present from Julia. Still they
were relatives, and would not regard her as a stranger.

There were so many arguments for accepting her aunt's invitation: the
pleasure of the sea-side trip, the change, the novelty of living in a
town, of having Julia for a companion and many school-fellows of her own
age; of exchanging Miss Green's school, with its catechisms and
needlework, for a young ladies' college, with its modern plans of study,
its classes and professors. And all these inducements had the charm of
being new and untried, so that only their agreeable side appeared to
view, the other being unknown.

Yet if there were fewer reasons against the plan, they were very
weighty, for how would mother contrive to do without her? And how could
she bear to live a year without a glimpse of the dear home faces?

"But I only help in the mornings and evenings," she mused, "for I am at
school all day, and perhaps I could come home for a few days at
Christmas. I'm sure I don't know what to do. I wish father and mother
had settled it. It is so difficult to know how to decide."

She did not forget the advice which had been given her--to pray over the
matter. Indeed, I doubt if she would in any case have come to a decision
without taking counsel of her Heavenly Father, for Ruth had for years
been in the habit of carrying her childish troubles and perplexities to
the one unfailing Guide.

And yet she was hardly sure that she was a Christian; and although she
longed to set her mother's mind at rest upon that point, she could not
venture to do so just yet. Like many another child of pious parents, she
had been trained to love good and hate evil; she had been taught to pray
and to desire to live a Christian life; she had long since begun the
never-ending conflict against evil and tried to rule her life and
actions by God's Word; and yet she could not tell whether the promptings
and impulses towards the Saviour which often came to her heart, were
merely the result of the loving sanctified home-influence which had
surrounded her from her birth, or if she had indeed become a disciple,
though but a feeble one, of the meek and lowly Jesus.

In the quiet calm of a summer day, when the wind scarcely ruffles the
waters of the bay, it is difficult to say whether the fair ship riding
at anchor will prove herself seaworthy. It is when the storm rises in
its fury and the billows dash over her that the testing time comes, and
she proves the strength of her bows and the soundness of her timbers, or
she sinks a hopeless wreck.

And it remained for Ruth's visit to Busyborough, to test her and prove
how strong was her desire to follow Christ. If it were but a weak
earth-born feeling, it would soon be upset by the winds of temptation;
but if it were indeed of God, although it might be roughly handled and
somewhat shaken for a time, it would come forth triumphant at last.

"Well, Ruth, what do you intend to do?" asked her father, as they sat at
breakfast the next morning. "Do you intend to go to Busyborough, and
find out how ignorant you are, and then set to work to study with all
your might, or do you mean to be the pattern eldest scholar at Miss
Green's? Do you mean to rub shoulders with others, or are you going to
stay at home and fancy yourself a prodigy of wisdom and learning?"

"I think, that if you and mother can spare me, I will go to Busyborough,
and rub shoulders with the others," said Ruth, steadily.

"That's right; I am glad to hear it; for although we shall miss you very
much, I am sure the change will benefit you. Go and learn all the good
you can, and tell us all about it when you come back. Ah! your mother
looks grave: I know she rather fears your picking up some fantastical
notions and growing to look down on your own people. But I don't fear
it. I look forward to seeing my little Ruth again next summer, grown
somewhat taller, perhaps, and wiser too, but still always my own Ruth."

"Yes, father," she answered, with something like a sob.

But Will, the eldest brother, who found that his father's speech and
Ruth's face were getting too much for his feelings, jumped up and seized
his hat, saying in his queer way that he must be off to the hay-field if
there was a prospect of showers, and he hoped Ruth would not run away
before he came back.

The other members of the family soon dispersed; and although Ruth's
departure was for days the all-absorbing topic of conversation, it was
generally referred to in a cheery way, and not in what Will called "the
sentimental strain."



Several letters passed between Mrs. Arnold and her sister-in-law; and as
it was arranged that Ruth was to go the following week, there was not
much time for preparation, and every spare minute was fully occupied.
Her entire wardrobe had to be inspected and replenished, as far as
slender means would permit; old garments were made to look as much like
new as possible, and little bits of ribbon and lace which had not seen
the light for years, because there were so few suitable occasions for
wearing them in a quiet country place, now reappeared in the form of
bows and tuckers for the neck.

As Mrs. Woburn, Ruth's aunt, lived a great many miles from Cressleigh,
it was decided that her niece should go direct to Stonegate, the
watering-place where they were to spend the holidays. She was therefore
to take a long railway journey, quite an event in itself, as she had
rarely been farther by rail than the county town, twelve miles distant,
and even there she had always been accompanied by her father or mother.
But just now there was so much to be done on the farm, that her father
could spare neither the time nor money for a long journey, and the young
girl was obliged to travel alone, a formidable undertaking, which seemed
almost to spoil the anticipated pleasure of the sea-side visit.

One bright morning in the early part of July, Ruth woke with the
thought, "I am really going away to-day, and perhaps I may not sleep in
this dear little room for a whole year, or for six months at least."

She had rarely called her chamber a "dear little room" before; in fact,
she had often grumbled because it was so small; but now that she was
about to go away it had suddenly become dear, for was it not part of her
home, and what place in the world could ever be so dear as home?

How strange it all seemed that morning! The coming downstairs and
finding the little trunk packed and corded in the hall; the hurried
breakfast, at which every one but mother talked very fast, because they
had so much to say and such a short time in which to say it; the
leave-takings, the good-byes, and parting injunctions.

Ruth drove off at last beside her father, feeling like one in a dream,
so dimly did she see everything through the mist of tears which hung
about her eyes.

There was another farewell to be said at the railway junction, for Mr.
Arnold could only wait a few minutes to see her into a comfortable
carriage, and then returned home to Cressleigh. When he waved his hand
and the train was fairly in motion, Ruth began to realize that she was
being separated for a long, long time from all whom she loved best in
the world; she heaved one great sob, and crouching into a corner of the
carriage gave way to a flood of tears. She wept for several minutes
undisturbed, then a kind motherly-looking lady, who was sitting opposite
to her, asked, "What is the matter, my dear? Are you going away to

"Yes, ma'am; at least, I mean no, not yet. I am going to the sea-side to
stay with my cousins for a few weeks."

"I don't think that most girls would be so distressed at the thought of
a visit to the sea-side," said the old lady, smiling.

"But I'm not coming back for ever so long," replied Ruth, drying her
tears, however. Then she informed her new friend how long she was going
to be away, and what she hoped to see and do during her absence from
home, and the old lady seemed so much interested that Ruth soon grew
bright and merry, and began to notice the pretty country through which
they were passing; and when the train stopped at a rustic station, where
a little pony trap was waiting to convey the old lady to her own home,
they felt as if they had known each other for years instead of hours,
and were really very sorry to part.

The rest of the journey seemed rather dull and tedious, and it was late
in the afternoon when the train drew up at the Stonegate station. There
were a good many people on the platform, and Ruth was wondering if any
one had come to meet her, when a lady looked in at the carriage door and
inquired in a pleasant manner, "Your name is Ruth Arnold, is it not?"

"Yes, it is," she replied rather shyly, as she bent forward to look at
her aunt. But that look told her a great deal.

She saw a fair placid face which she felt sure she should love, for the
dark blue eyes reminded her of her father's, though the fair hair and
small mouth were strangely unlike his. But there was something familiar
in the tone of her voice, and when she called a cab, gave instructions
about the luggage, and took her seat beside her niece, Ruth was quite at
ease and felt that she was going to be happy.

"You will see Julia very soon," said Mrs. Woburn, "but this is our first
day at the sea-side, and she was out when I started. I am afraid that
she will be angry with me, for I know that she intended to come herself
to meet you, and I think she will be disappointed."

"It was very kind of you to come," said Ruth; "I was getting quite
frightened, and thought that perhaps you might not know me, and that I
should be all alone in a strange place."

"There is not much fear that any one who has seen your mother would not
recognise her daughter," was Mrs. Woburn's smiling reply.

"Do you think me so much like her?" asked Ruth eagerly, looking greatly

"Indeed I do. But this is our lodging. I see Julia looking out of the

In another minute Ruth had followed her aunt into a large cheerful
sitting-room, with two bay-windows overlooking the beach and sea.

"Oh! mamma, what a shame of you to go without me!" cried a voice from
the window where a young girl was standing.

"You were so late, dear," said Mrs. Woburn gently. "Here is your cousin;
take her to her room; I am sure she must be tired after her long

Julia, a pretty fair-haired fashionably-dressed girl, came forward and
shook hands, saying, "How d'ye do, Ruth? I am glad mamma met you. Will
you come upstairs?"

She led the way to a pretty bedroom, much larger than the one in which
Ruth had slept at Cressleigh. There was a splendid view of the sea from
the windows, and the furniture of the room was all of light polished
wood; a pretty dressing-table stood between the windows, which were hung
with white muslin curtains, and the hangings and cover-lids of the two
little beds were snowy white.

"What a pretty room!" said Ruth, as she entered.

"Do you think so? I think it is awfully small and poky. And we are both
to sleep here, which I am sure will be very inconvenient; but we
couldn't get anything better, so I suppose we must put up with it.
Lodgings are always the great drawback to the sea-side, you know."

Ruth did not know what reply to make, she was so taken aback by the
grandeur of Julia's air and manner.



"Tea is ready, miss," said a trim maid-servant at the door of the
bedroom where the two girls were talking, and Ruth followed her cousin
downstairs to the large cheerful room she had entered upon her arrival.

Mrs. Woburn had already taken her seat behind the urn, and the two boys
who were sitting beside her rose to meet their cousin. Ernest, the elder
of the two, was a tall, thin lad of fifteen, with a pair of large brown
eyes, the only striking feature in his plain but sensible face.

Rupert was a merry little schoolboy of seven, bright-eyed and
curly-haired, a mischievous little sprite, no doubt, but a very
affectionate lovable little fellow. He chattered continually during the
meal, and did a great deal to take off the sense of shyness that Ruth
felt in the company of Julia and Ernest, and her aunt asked questions
about the farm-life at Cressleigh, and talked of their plans for the
next few weeks.

"Oh! you will have a great deal to see," said Julia, "as this is your
first visit to the sea-side. I think we had better put on our hats and
go for a long walk at once, it is a shame to be indoors this lovely

"That will hardly do for your cousin, dear; she looks rather tired, and
we must remember that she has had a long journey to-day."

Ruth was very tired, and, much as she longed to go for a walk along the
shore, she felt that that pleasure must be deferred until the next
morning. But she was rather dismayed by Julia's saying, "Well, I don't
see any reason for our remaining indoors. Of course Ernest won't come,
he is too much taken up with that book about--shellology. So he can stay
with Ruth while you come out with us."

"Why can't you call things by their right names, and say 'conchology'?"
asked Ernest quietly.

"Really, Julia, I don't think we must leave your cousin this evening,"
said Mrs. Woburn, doubtfully.

"Don't stay at home on my account, auntie," replied Ruth, putting aside
her own feelings, though she did not much like the idea of spending the
evening with Ernest, such a grave, quiet boy, so very different from her

Julia carried her point, and started in a few minutes for a walk with
her mother and Rupert, leaving the cousins to their own resources. Ruth
took a seat near the window, and watched the waves breaking gently upon
the beach, while the boy appeared to be entirely occupied with his book.
It was rather dull, this first evening away from home; it seemed
scarcely possible that she had really only left Cressleigh that morning,
and she began to wonder if they had missed her very much, and what they
were doing now, and when she should see them all again, and as she
thought of the months that must elapse first she heaved a weary sigh.

The sigh roused Ernest, who had quite forgotten his companion in the
charms of his book, and he at once endeavoured to make amends for his
neglect in his kind but awkward way.

"Oh! I beg your pardon," he began, "I almost forgot--do you like
conchology?" he asked, by way of starting a conversation.

"I don't know anything about it," was Ruth's meek reply, "but I believe
it is the science of shells, is it not?"

"Yes. I thought you wouldn't care for it. Girls never do."

"Perhaps I might learn," she said humbly; "but I haven't had a chance to
study any 'ologies,' they did not teach them at Miss Green's. Are you
studying it as a holiday task?"

"No, for amusement. They won't let me study in the holidays, but I enjoy
this. Just look at these shells, aren't they beauties?" and he showed
her one of the illustrations in his book.

"Oh! how beautiful!" she exclaimed; and the boy, seeing she was
interested, told her what he had been reading, and promised to get her
some specimens the next day, and the time slipped rapidly by, until Mrs.
Woburn and Julia returned.

"What have you been doing all the evening?" asked Julia, when they were
in their room that night. "Was Ernest civil?"

"He was very kind, and showed me his book on conchology, and explained
about the shells, and he is going to get me some specimens to-morrow."

"Indeed!" said Julia, rather surprised, "I should not have thought that
you cared for that sort of thing."

Ruth was too tired to answer, and had soon forgotten the events of the
day in sound refreshing sleep. When she awoke, the sun was shining
brightly, and she was astonished to find that she had slept until
half-past seven. She was accustomed to rise very early at home, and was
afraid that her cousins would be shocked at her laziness, until she
found that Julia was still sleeping quietly in the bed beside her.

"Julia! Julia!" she cried, "it's very late. We must get up at once."

"What is the time?" was asked drowsily.

"Half-past seven."

"Why can't you let me rest?" said Julia crossly. "We always breakfast at
eight at home, but I don't intend to get up so early at the sea-side."

She closed her eyes and went to sleep again; but Ruth, who was wide
awake, rose at once, dressed quickly, brushed her brown curls, and went
downstairs. There was no one about, and the morning air was so fresh,
and the sunshine so inviting, that she took her hat and ran down to the
beach, feeling so full of joy and gladness that she could hardly
restrain herself from singing, as she often did in the fields at
Cressleigh. The sunlight sparkled upon the crested waves as they broke
gently upon the shore, and the tide came in, slowly creeping up the
shingle, now bearing away a dry piece of sea-weed and making it look
alive and fresh, advancing and retreating, yet ever creeping slowly
upward, until one wave almost broke over her feet and reminded her of
the old and oft-repeated adage, "Time and tide wait for no man."

She hurried back, to find her aunt and cousins waiting breakfast for
her; and as she told them about her morning ramble, she did not notice
the unpleasant glances which Julia bestowed upon her dress, a blue
cotton one, made very simply, but somewhat old-fashioned, and washed
until the colour was rather faded.

"We must certainly go out this lovely morning," said Mrs. Woburn after
breakfast. "Where do you think your cousin would like to go, dear?"

"Oh! we'll go to the Esplanade of course," replied Julia, as she ran off
to get ready. She came down a few minutes later looking very nice in her
pretty holland dress trimmed with red, and shady straw hat with muslin
and lace bows, and dainty gloves.

"You don't mean to say that you are going out like that, Ruth!" she
exclaimed, as she caught sight of her cousin sitting by the window still
wearing her print dress and shabby straw hat.

"Yes," she replied, and was going to ask "Why not?" but the sight of her
cousin's simple but pretty costume stopped her, and she blushed rosy

"Then of course we cannot go to the Esplanade," said Julia in a pointed



"The Esplanade did you say, girls?" asked Mrs. Woburn, entering at that

"No, mamma, we don't care about it; any other place will do," replied
Julia sulkily.

"We will walk along the beach to Brill Head then," said Mrs. Woburn,
"and I dare say Ernest would like to accompany us; he will find plenty
of specimens there."

"Shall I stay at home, Aunt Annie?" asked Ruth timidly.

"Certainly not, unless you wish it; Julia has been longing to have you
for a companion, and this will be such a delightful walk."

But the pleasure of the walk was gone for Ruth. Julia was quiet, and
scarcely spoke to any one, and her mother could not understand what was
the matter, and although she tried her best to bring back the look of
delight to her niece's face, she was not successful. It was not until
they reached Brill Head, and Ernest began his search for specimens, that
Ruth recovered her wonted liveliness, and the sunshine returned to her
face and the gladness to her heart, and she felt so full of life and
energy that she challenged Rupert to a race.

"Just look at her, mamma!" exclaimed Julia, who was sitting beside her
mother on a rustic seat. "Did you ever see any one so wild and vulgar?
And that frightful dress, as old-fashioned as possible! To think of our
going on the Esplanade with her!"

"Is that the reason you did not wish to go there?"

"Of course it was. Every one would have stared at her antiquated dress.
Indeed, she is altogether old-fashioned; she actually asked me last
night if I had any dolls, and if I went to Sunday-school. I didn't think
that having a poor relation to live with us would be quite so annoying
and humiliating."

Mrs. Woburn was very seldom angry with her spoilt child, but now she was
thoroughly roused, and said in low distinct tones, "Remember, Julia,
that you speak of my brother's daughter. While Ruth is here she will be
treated as your sister. You little know what you owe to your uncle, and
if I ever hear you speak in that contemptuous way of any of his family I
will send you to your room at once."

Such a threat was quite strange to Julia, who at fourteen began to
consider herself almost grown-up, and quite above reproof or punishment;
but it was sufficiently determined to prevent her making any more
remarks of the sort in her mother's hearing, though it did not increase
her affection for her cousin.

During the walk home Ruth was merry as ever, romping with Rupert,
chatting with that usually shy lad, Ernest, and planning an afternoon on
the shore to collect sea-weeds. But Julia walked slowly beside her
mother, so evidently determined to be silent that the rest of the party
tacitly agreed to leave her to herself.

Mr. Woburn and his eldest son, Gerald, arrived at Stonegate that
afternoon, and Ruth saw them for the first time. She soon felt at home
with her uncle, a plain-featured, middle-aged man of business, but with
his son she felt wonderfully shy. It seemed hardly possible that the
handsome young man with the dark moustache and manly bearing could be
her cousin. She had expected to see a boy two or three years older than
Will, but still a boy, not a polite and self-possessed young man, who by
his way of speaking to her made her feel a very little girl indeed.

"How have you been improving the shining hours, my lad?" was his
greeting to Ernest.

"He has been down on the shore collecting shells for Ruth," said Julia

"Ernest becoming a lady's man! Dear me! the country cousin is working
wonders," he cried in feigned surprise.

Ruth felt the hot blood rushing to her cheeks, though she tried to look
as if she had not heard the remark; but it spoilt her pleasure in
seeking for shells, and she decided mentally that she should never like
Cousin Gerald. The arrival of her brother seemed to have restored
Julia's good-humour, and when in the evening he proposed a stroll on the
pier she gladly assented, and the whole party set out to hear the band
which played there two or three evenings in the week.

Ruth thought that she had never known anything so charming as that
evening. It was so pleasant to sit in a sheltered corner listening to
the finest music she had ever heard, played by a military band and
accompanied by the gentle splash of the waves against the pier; to feel
the cool fresh sea-breeze blowing around her, and to see the gay dresses
of the ladies as they walked up and down talking to their friends, until
by-and-by the quiet stars came out and the silver moon shone upon the

Julia was not contented to sit still and look on; she begged Gerald to
let her promenade with him, and for a few minutes he gratified her whim;
but Ruth, although she had changed the dress which had proved so
obnoxious that morning, did not consider herself to be attired richly
enough to mingle with the gay throng that passed and re-passed her in
her quiet corner.

"What do you think of Gerald?" asked Julia, when the two girls had
retired to their bedroom that evening. "Is he not very handsome?"

"Yes," said Ruth, glad that her cousin had asked a question to which she
could give her assent so easily. "But I didn't know that he was so old;
I expected he would be a boy."

"He is only nineteen," said Julia; "but I am sure he looks older."

"Only nineteen! Why, Will is seventeen, and he is quite a boy compared
with Cousin Gerald."

"That is very likely, for he has been brought up in the country, and
that makes a great difference. Now I am sure that Gerald knows quite as
much as most men do, and I think it is too bad for father to treat him
like a boy."

"Does he?" asked Ruth innocently.

"Yes; he won't even allow him to have a latch-key, and then he complains
if Gerald is rather late home in the evening, and he has to sit up for
him. And even mamma annoys him dreadfully sometimes by calling him 'her
dear boy.'"

"I thought mothers did that even when their sons were quite grown up,"
said Ruth.

"I don't think they should," was Julia's reply. "But it is quite too bad
of papa to expect poor Gerald to slave away in that office all day. He
is quite a tyrant, and grudges the poor fellow any pleasure."

"Julia! Julia! I am sure it is very wrong of you to talk in that way of
your parents," cried Ruth reproachfully. "Don't you know the Bible says,
'Honour thy father and mother'?"

"What an old-fashioned, tiresome creature you are!" muttered Julia in a
sleepy voice.



"When are we to have the picnic, mamma?" asked Julia at breakfast the
next morning.

"Any day will suit me; but as your father and Gerald will only be here
for a short time, I think we must arrange to have it as early as
possible the week after next."

"Let us have it on Monday. Yes, Monday," cried Rupert and Julia

"I am going out boating on Monday," said Gerald lazily.

"Tuesday or Wednesday," suggested Mrs. Woburn.

"I am engaged for Tuesday also, but Wednesday is clear, I believe,"
replied the young man in a careless manner, as if it did not signify
much to him whether he formed one of the party or not.

"How horrid of you to put it off so long," exclaimed his sister angrily.
"I daresay Wednesday will be wet."

"_Nous verrons_," he replied, as he sauntered from the room with his
hands in his pockets. He looked in again at the door to say, "I shall
not be back until the evening, mother;" and in another moment the
banging of the front-door told them that he had left the house.

"It is too bad of Gerald to go off like that the very first day he is
here," said Julia. "I suppose he has taken his bicycle and gone out with
his friends, the Goodes. Horrid people! Yes, there he is," she cried as
Gerald and two other young men on bicycles passed the house bowing and
smiling towards the window where the two girls were standing.

"Gerald out with the Goodes? I wish he would choose some other
companions," said Mr. Woburn, who had scarcely noticed their previous

"You see how papa finds fault with him," whispered Julia to her cousin.

"Ruth, I want you to come to my room for a few minutes," said Mrs.
Woburn; and her niece followed her upstairs.

"I should like you to try on these things and see how they fit you," she
said, as she pointed to some pretty dresses spread out on the bed. There
was a pale pink, trimmed with dainty white lace; a figured sateen
covered with tiny rosebuds, and finished off here and there with knots
and bows of rose-coloured ribbon; a simple holland dress trimmed with
white braid, and a shady straw hat with bows of lace and a tiny bunch of
rosebuds. Ruth gazed at the garments with admiration and astonishment,
then she glanced at her own shabby print frock, blushed rosy red, and
the tears began to gather in her eyes.

"What is the matter, Ruth? Do you not like them?" asked her aunt kindly.

"They are very pretty, and you are very kind, auntie; but I would rather
not wear them," said the girl, trying hard to repress the tears of
mortification that stood in her eyes.

"But, my dear, they have been bought on purpose for you to wear at the
sea-side. Do at least try them."

"Thank you, auntie, I would much rather not do so;" and Ruth turned
aside to the window, from which she could see nothing for the mist
before her eyes caused by the storm of passion and pride surging within
her breast.

There was no reply, and when she looked round again she found that she
was alone. The sunshine was streaming into the room, shining upon the
white hat and the pretty dresses, just such garments as Ruth would have
chosen if she had had an opportunity of buying such a stock of clothes
for herself. But she remembered Julia's words and manner the previous
morning, and felt so proud and angry that she deliberately shut her eyes
as she walked out of the room, and gave not a thought to her aunt's

"It is too bad! I'll not stand it!" she murmured. "I did not come here
to be treated like a poor relation. If they don't like me as I am, I
will go home again. Yes, I'll go and tell auntie so at once," she
continued, her pride rising higher and higher until she reached the
bay-windowed drawing-room where her aunt was sitting with Ernest. She
did not observe his presence, but went straight to her aunt, her cheeks
crimson and her eyes flashing.

"Aunt Annie," she said as calmly as her emotion would permit, "Aunt
Annie, I think that I had better go home."

"My dear child, what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Woburn, dropping her
work in her amazement.

"I think that if you don't like me as I am, I had better go home," she

"What do you mean?" asked her aunt, still more perplexed; while Ernest
looked up from his book and inquired, "Has Julia been annoying her?"

"No," said Ruth; "but, oh, auntie! I can't bear to be--a poor relation,
and--and have clothes given me."

The pent-up sobs would have their way at last, and the girl sank down
beside her aunt, who tried to soothe and comfort her.

"Have those dresses troubled you so much, dear?" she asked gently. "I
had no idea that that was the cause of your annoyance, but fancied you
did not like the style in which they were made. If I had thought that
you would have any objection I would have acted differently; but as your

"Did mother know that you were getting them for me?" inquired Ruth.

"Yes, and she wrote to say that she should be glad for you to be treated
in every way like your cousin. And you must never think, dear, that we
regard you as 'a poor relation.' Remember that your father is my
brother, and whatever I give you has been paid for, and far more than
paid for, years ago."

"Thank you, auntie; I am glad to know that," she said quietly.

"I did not think you were so proud, Ruth," whispered Ernest as she left
the room, and went up to her own chamber to have a good cry over her
foolish behaviour. But, to her dismay, Julia was there dressing for a
walk, an occupation which she knew would take her a considerable time.

Oh, how she longed for her little room at home, where she had so often
taken her childish troubles, or for a quiet nook upon the shore, such as
she had often read of, but which is rarely to be found in a fashionable
watering-place. There was no solitude for her just then, and she was
obliged to fight the battle within silently, while her companion rallied
her upon her mournful looks and red eyes; and to send up her prayer for
help from the heart, without using the lips. But help came, and she
conquered at last the pride and temper of which she was now thoroughly
ashamed. She was anxious to obtain her aunt's forgiveness for the rude
reception of her kindness, and tried to make amends by arraying herself
in the pink dress and pretty hat, which she showed to Julia, saying how
kind it was of auntie to get such lovely things for her. By-and-by when
she had an opportunity she said in a low voice, "I am very sorry that I
was so proud and rude just now, auntie. I'll try to behave better in

And Mrs. Woburn, looking at her niece's dress, saw that her repentance
was not only expressed in words.



A week spent at Stonegate had taught Ruth more of her own frailties and
weaknesses, and had shown her more of the various sorts of people of
which the world is composed, than she would have learnt in a whole year
spent in the quiet sheltered seclusion of her home at Cressleigh.

The novelty, the continued round of pleasure, the excitement and gaiety,
were bewildering and delightful to the simple country girl. It seemed to
her that she had been suddenly transported from the commonplace ordinary
work-a-day world in which she had hitherto dwelt, to a fairyland of
sunshine, music, and pleasure. It was almost impossible at times to
realize that the sun which brightened the Esplanade, and gilded the edge
of the rippling waves, was the same sun which was shining upon her
father's harvest-field at home, upon the labourers toiling at the
sickle, the women binding the sheaves, and the servants briskly moving
hither and thither, all as busy as bees throughout the whole of the long
summer day.

Everything at the sea-side was new to Ruth, and she exulted in the
freshness and novelty of all around her, for she was still at that happy

    "When all things pleased, for life itself was new,
     And the heart promised what the fancy drew."

Alas, that that time is being gradually shortened, and that children say
good-bye at such an early age to the simple pleasures of youth!

How few years there are in which one can be young, and how many in which
one must be old!

But Ruth was still young, far younger in her capacity to enjoy than
Julia, who was her junior by some months. She was in good health, with
fine animal spirits, and had not tasted half the pleasures which had
already grown stale to her cousin. The boating, the chatter, the
strolls, the music on the pier, the glorious sunsets, the very stones
and shells upon the beach, the fresh breezes and the ever-changing sea,
all contributed to afford her such pleasure as it would have been
impossible for Julia to feel, because she, poor child, was already
disenchanted at fourteen, was already wearied with frequent repetition
of the amusements which were new to her cousin, and also because she had
imbibed the idea that it was ill-bred, and a mark of ignorance, to show
or even to _feel_ extreme pleasure in anything, yet was ever selfishly
seeking some new gratification.

"You appear to be enjoying yourself very much, Ruth," observed her aunt,
as she sat beside her on the pier the evening before the day arranged
for the picnic.

"How can I help it, auntie? You are so kind, and everything is so
enchanting," was the enthusiastic reply.

"I think that many of the richest people here would give all they
possess to have that child's keen sense of delight," remarked Mrs.
Woburn to her husband, as Ruth tripped away to join her cousins.

"Oh, Julia," she exclaimed, "what a charming piece the band has been

"That old thing!" replied the other contemptuously. "It is the overture
to 'La Sonnambula,' and I perfectly hate it, for I learnt it at school
ages ago, and Signor Touchi used to get awfully angry about it."

Julia often acted as a sort of wet blanket upon her cousin's
enthusiastic outbursts; though it was a long time before the country
girl learnt to express her delight in the usual formula of a fashionable
young lady, "Very charming," or "Awfully nice," pronounced in a manner
which seems to imply, "Just tolerable."

Wednesday morning rose clear and bright, and soon after sunrise Ruth
peeped out of the window to see if the weather were favourable, and when
she saw the sunshine she could remain in bed no longer, but dressed
quickly and ran down to the beach, her favourite retreat in the early
morning, and the only place where she ever found an opportunity for
quiet thought amidst all the excitement of pleasure-seeking.

What a long time it seemed since she had left home! And yet it was only
a few days. What would her mother think, she wondered, of the life she
was leading now? She had only received one short letter from her,
written after all the rest of the household were in bed, and Ruth could
guess how very busy every one was, although there was but a casual
reference to the fact in the letter.

"I hope that mother is not doing too much," she mused, "it was very kind
of her to let me have so much pleasure; but how hard it would be to go
back now after all this gaiety. I trust that I am not getting spoilt,

"Have you been looking for anemones, Ruth?" asked a boyish voice beside
her. "This is not the place to find them."

"I had no idea that you were near, Ernest," was her reply, "but I have
not been looking for anything, only thinking."

"Well, it is almost breakfast time now. You know that we are to be early
this morning on account of the picnic to which you are all going."

"But surely you are going with us?" said Ruth in surprise.

"No," he answered quietly, "I should only be in the way. Gerald and his
fellows don't want me, and Julia and her friends only snub me and think
me a nuisance, and of course I am too old to romp and be petted like
little Ru. So I shall have a quiet day on the shore collecting fresh
specimens, and you shall see them to-morrow. Now we must go in to

Ernest had grown very fond of his country cousin, who was so different
from his sister and her friends that she could actually take an interest
in his pursuits, and who, under her father's guidance, had learnt many
interesting facts of natural history which the town-bred boy had never
had opportunities of observing.

Breakfast was a hurried meal, and directly it was over there followed
the bustle of preparation for the day's excursion. Hampers were sent
off, duly packed with all kinds of delicacies; Rupert was running up and
down stairs continually, and getting in the way as much as Ernest, who
remained stationary near the door; while Julia rushed from her room to
her mother's, declaring that she was quite certain they would all be
late, and then ran back to ask Ruth to help her to dress.



Everything was ready at last, and the whole family started for the pier,
where they were to meet their friends. Such a crowd of people surrounded
them upon their arrival, that Ruth, who merely knew a few of them
slightly, felt quite over-whelmed, and wished that her usual companion,
Ernest, had been beside her.

The steamer which had been chartered for the occasion now came alongside
the pier, and every one was occupied with the business of embarking.
When all the party were safely on board, Ruth found herself amongst a
number of strangers, far away from Julia, who had evidently quite
forgotten her, and was laughing and chatting with a little group of
girls at the other end of the vessel. Her aunt was entertaining the
ladies, and her uncle walking up and down the deck in earnest
conversation with two gentlemen; Rupert was trying to get on the
paddle-box, and there was no one near her but Gerald, the facetious
leader of a knot of young men. Ruth felt very lonely and rather
sorrowful; she had been eagerly anticipating this picnic, and now she
seemed to be quite neglected, while every one else was gay and happy.
She had not the courage to make her way through the visitors to reach
Julia at the other end of the boat, for she had an undefined feeling
that if she went she would not be welcomed there. Her thoughts flew back
to the one spot of earth where she was always wanted and ever welcomed,
and she heaved a little sigh.

"What is the matter, my fair coz?" asked Gerald, who was standing near
and heard the sigh. "Are the Fates very unpropitious?"

"No, Cousin Gerald," she answered shyly.

She could not understand the young man who patronized her, and talked to
her as if she were a little child, and she fancied that he was making
fun of her.

"Then why do you sigh?" he inquired.

"I have nothing else to do," she said, smiling.

"Has Julia left you without any introduction? Well, we will soon remedy
that," he said as he led her towards a very fair young girl, dressed in
blue and white, and having introduced the two girls he left them
talking, and strolled off with a friend.

Ruth's companion was by no means shy, she had a great deal to say, and
began by making remarks upon the people on board, and telling little
scraps of their personal histories.

"You see that old gentleman walking with Mr. Woburn. That is Mr. Amass,
the banker. They say that he is awfully rich, but I am sure that he is a
terrible screw. Only look at his wife, and see how shabbily she dresses.
Don't you see her over there with the daisies in her bonnet? And that is
her niece, Miss Game, flirting with Mr. Trim. Ah! he is walking away
now; he prefers a chat with Edith Thorpe. How amused they look! I
suppose he is telling her what Miss Game has been saying. Yes, I am sure
they are laughing at her!"

"But surely," said Ruth, looking rather shocked, "he would not be so
rude as to talk to a young lady, and then go away and laugh at her!"

"My dear child," replied the other, laughing, "every one does it, more
or less."

"But are none of them _friends_? Do none of them care for each other
sufficiently to refrain from laughing?" asked Ruth earnestly.

"Very few persons care enough for their friends to be quiet about their
follies and weaknesses," replied this worldly-wise young lady, and then
she continued her running commentary upon the visitors until the steamer
arrived at its destination, a beautiful little bay where the water was
so clear that one could see the sea-weeds growing underneath. Tall trees
grew not far from the shore, and upon a slight eminence was situated an
old castle, not possessing many historical associations, but in a fairly
good state of preservation, and much frequented by pleasure parties from

The older ladies at once made their way to a shady nook under the trees,
and the rest of the party strolled about the grounds in twos and threes
until a tempting repast had been spread, not upon the grass, but upon
long wooden tables in the castle yard.

Ruth was utterly astonished. Her ideas of a picnic were gathered from
the simple and joyous little parties held in the woods near her home,
when the hamper, filled with cold meat, tartlets, and milk or lemonade,
was sent on in the milk cart or one of the farm wagons, a white cloth
was spread under the shade of a tree, and the whole party sat on the
grass round it, and were merry and lively, regarding the little
accidents which would occasionally happen as so much cause for mirth.

But this sumptuous collation, with its garnished dishes of poultry and
joints, salads, tarts, jellies, blancmange, ices and champagne, with
various fruits, all tastefully arranged, and the accessories of glass
and flowers, silver forks and spoons, and long seats, with waiters
hurrying about, made a picnic quite a different affair, and--Ruth was
unfashionable enough to think--took away all the fun of it. She could
see that her aunt was somewhat anxious, and was quite as vexed at any
slight accident which occurred as if she had been giving a party in her
own house.

Of course there were several toasts and a good deal of speech-making,
and a considerable quantity of champagne was drunk before the guests
left the tables and dispersed, some to the tennis court, others to
explore the castle, and a few to take a country walk in the green lanes.

The afternoon was very warm, but the hush of the summer's stillness was
broken by the merry voices of the girls as they made their way through
the old castle and peeped out of the windows at their friends in the
tennis court below. There was a continual flutter of light dresses
through the low doorways and up the dingy stairs, and merry sounds of
laughter echoed through the empty chambers. It was the first castle that
romantic little Ruth had ever seen; and although she could not gather
much of its history from the little books sold at the gate, she tried to
imagine the scenes that had been enacted there, to people it with
knights in armour, and to fancy that the girlish faces which peeped
through the windows were those of "fayre ladyes" of bygone days.

She was aroused from her day-dream by a scream from one of the girls,
and saw Gerald, looking white and scared, hurrying towards a small door
leading to the keep. The tennis players ceased their game, all eyes were
turned in one direction, and a frightened whisper ran through the crowd
as Mr. Woburn hastened across the ground. On the very edge of a broken
tottering wall projecting from the side of the keep sat Rupert--ever an
adventurous little fellow--his face white and his legs dangling. He had
crept up into the keep alone, and climbed as high as he could, just to
give them all a fright. And he had succeeded, but not without risk to
himself, for the shriek of terror which some one gave upon seeing him
had awakened him to a sense of his danger, and looking down upon the
terrified faces below he grew frightened and almost lost the power to
keep his seat. It was a terrible moment, and every one paused in
horror-stricken silence.


"That's right, Ruey, sit still!" cried a clear, ringing voice. "Shall I
come up to keep you company? But you must get to the other end of the
wall. Don't try to crawl; push yourself along like this," cried Ruth,
sitting on a low fence and propelling herself sideways, clutching it
with her hands on either side, quite regardless of the notice she was
attracting. It was the best thing she could have done, for the boy,
hearing her cheery tones and seeing that the faces below were no longer
upturned in terror, began to regain his courage, and imitated his
cousin's movements, thus getting farther and farther from the dangerous
corner and nearer to the firmer masonry of the keep, through which the
young men were hurrying to his rescue. Slowly and awkwardly he shuffled
along, and reached the end of the wall just as Ruth reached the end of
her fence, for she had kept on all the time for the sake of example.

"Thank God he is safe!" cried Mr. Woburn, as Gerald caught the little
fellow in his arms and disappeared within the walls of the building.

"And this young lady has saved him," said a gentleman who had just
appeared upon the scene. He had been taking a country ramble, had seen
the boy's danger from a considerable distance, and arrived, almost
breathless, in the castle yard just as Rupert was lifted from his
perilous position.

"If he had fainted or turned giddy he must have fallen, and that wall
would not have borne another person. Indeed, if the boy had not been a
very light weight, I am afraid it would have given way;" and as if to
verify his words a small piece of stone, which had probably been
loosened by the boy's movements, came crashing down from the wall.

Ruth was now the universal object of attention, and she felt dreadfully
bashful and awkward as one after another gathered round her and praised
"her wonderful presence of mind," and "her remarkable courage." "So
fearless, too," said one young dandy, who would not on any account have
risked his dainty limbs. "I really thought she was going to climb up and
fetch him down."

"I should not have been surprised if she had done so," said a young lady
near him.

The poor girl blushed, and began to wonder if she had done rightly in
calling out so loudly and drawing every one's attention to herself, for
her mother had always told her that a young girl should seek to avoid

"And yet," she thought, "it cannot be wrong. I only wanted to cheer
little Ru, and I could not stop to think of any other way."



The appearance of little Rupert in the castle yard diverted attention
from his blushing cousin, while friends and relatives crowded round him
to scold, applaud, or pet, as they deemed fit. His mother, overcome by
the anxiety and suspense of those terrible moments, fainted directly he
was brought down to her, but was soon restored, and grew very anxious
that the affair should not interfere with the happiness of her guests.
Some, indeed, proposed returning at once to Stonegate, but they were
overruled by the younger members of the party, who were anxious to
remain until the moon had risen, and also by Mrs. Woburn's desire not to
curtail their enjoyment; and it was finally settled that the steamer
should not return until ten o'clock.

Tea, coffee, and other refreshments were handed round, and the
interrupted games were resumed and carried on until the summer evening
grew chilly. The dew began to fall, and gave warning that it was too
late for out-of-door sports, and drove them into the shelter of the old
castle, where the young people proposed a dance. There was a spacious
room in the lower part of the building which had been often used for
such a purpose, and after hunting up a village musician and pressing him
into their service, hats and wraps were thrown aside and the dancing
commenced. Ruth did not understand the steps, but sat down near the
married ladies and looked on at what, to her unaccustomed eyes, was a
gay and lively scene. Yet she could not enter into it as she had entered
into the pleasures of the preceding days. She could not forget the alarm
of the afternoon; she was sure that her aunt was feeling ill and weary,
and she felt that the gaiety around was rather ill-timed and out of
harmony with the feelings of the hostess. The hours passed slowly to
those who were merely looking on, but at ten the dancing ceased, the old
fiddler was dismissed, and amidst a great deal of laughter and chatter
the gay party left the castle and made their way to the steamer.

The moon was shining brilliantly, and the walls of the old castle
gleamed in its light or were hidden in dense shadow by the surrounding
trees. The steamer lay in the little bay just below, every inch of her
visible in the moonlight, and all agreed that it was a perfect night for
a water trip.

Ruth longed for a little quiet, and strove to escape from her lively
companions, whose mirth did not accord with her feelings. She sat in a
sheltered corner, and looked at the vast expanse of water and at the
quiet stars keeping watch overhead. Nothing so much reminded her of home
as the stars, which shone upon her just as they had shone at home, and
with the thought of home came a remembrance of the Heavenly Father of
whom she had thought so little lately, but who had watched over her
unceasingly and had helped her that day to save her little cousin from a
horrible fate.

Mr. Woburn and Gerald returned to Busyborough a few days after the
picnic, and the remaining weeks of the sea-side holiday passed all too
quickly for Ruth, who was never tired of the delights of sea and shore
and all the varied amusements that Stonegate afforded.

Still, she was anxious to commence her studies at the young ladies'
college her cousin attended, and spent many an hour thinking of it and
trying to imagine what the school, the governesses, and the pupils would
be like. It was of little use to question Julia, who always declared
that she "didn't want to be bothered about school in the holidays," and
that Ruth would soon find out "how horrid it was."

It was in September that they bade farewell to Stonegate and left for
Busyborough. The days were growing shorter and colder, and as the
railway journey occupied two or three hours it was late in the day when
they reached their destination, and the street lamps and shop windows
were all aglow with gas-light.

What a large noisy place it seemed to country-bred Ruth, as their cab
rattled through street after street brilliantly lighted, down long
roads, past handsome houses and gardens, until it stopped before a large
many-windowed house, with a long flight of stone steps and a small
garden, enclosed by massive iron railings.

Rupert and Julia ran up the steps and disappeared, and Ruth followed her
aunt into the tile-paved hall, where two servants were waiting to
receive them. It was a home-coming to all the others, but to the country
cousin it was quite strange and new.

"It is good to be at home again," said Mrs. Woburn. "Come, Ruth, I will
show you your room."

She led the way upstairs and opened the door of a pleasant little room,
furnished tastefully with every requisite for a young girl's apartment.
Everything was so pretty, and the bright fire burning in the grate gave
the room such a cosy look, that Ruth was delighted, and tried to express
her grateful thanks, but was simply bidden to make herself at home and
to be very happy.

Left alone in the room which was to be her own, she began to look around
her and to admire the pretty French bedstead, the light modern
furniture, and the pictures, bookshelves, and brackets upon the walls.
How much larger and more elegant it was than the tiny room which had
been hers at Cressleigh! She felt that she was indeed growing farther
away from the old life every day. "If it were not for Julia, and the
fact that I am so far from home, I could be perfectly happy here," was
her mental comment.

They were two large "if's," and Julia was the one which occupied the
principal share of her thoughts. She did not "take to" her cousin,
neither did she try to make the best of the very apparent fact that
their tastes were dissimilar. Instead of seeking for points on which
they could agree, she allowed her mind to dwell continually upon their
diversity, and was beginning to return her cousin's ill-concealed
contempt for her rustic and unfashionable notions by a growing scorn and
proud dislike, which though at first secretly cherished could not fail
to show themselves in time.



Studies will be resumed on Tuesday, 25th inst. Such was the intimation
sent out by Miss Elgin, the principal of the ladies' college which the
girls were to attend.

Accordingly on Tuesday morning Ruth accompanied her cousin to Addison
College, where she was kindly received by Miss Elgin, and introduced to
several of the girls, who seemed friendly and agreeable.

The lofty spacious schoolroom, with its comfortable seats and desks, its
splendid maps and numerous modern appliances and convenient
arrangements, the school library, with its rows of standard authors in
uniform binding, the music-room, the pianos--in fact, the whole
establishment exceeded Ruth's brightest dreams of school; and her desire
for knowledge, which had somewhat lessened during her sojourn at the
sea-side, seemed at once to be kindled afresh.

She answered readily the questions given to test her previously acquired
knowledge, and it soon became evident that what she professed to know
had been thoroughly learnt. In English studies she was pronounced fairly
proficient for her age; but in French, music, and other accomplishments
she was very backward, and she found that she would have to work very
hard in order to obtain a good place in her class.

The work of the morning was so novel and interesting to Ruth, that she
was quite astonished when the bell rang for recess, and the girls
trooped off to an anteroom, where their tongues were unloosed and the
pleasures and events of the holidays were discussed, with many other

"Have you heard the news about Mr. Stanley?" asked a bright lively girl,
Ethel Thompson by name, the gossip and news-monger of the school.

"No; what is it?" cried several voices.

"Well, you must keep it to yourselves, you know," she said in a
confidential tone, "but he has failed, he is a bankrupt."

"Are you sure it is true?" asked one and another.

"How do you know?"

"I am sure it is quite true, for my father was talking about it last
night, and of course I understood how it was that Mabel's place was
vacant this morning," continued Ethel.

"Vacant! I should think it was! You don't suppose she would show her
face here, do you?" exclaimed Julia Woburn. "Of course no one would take
any notice of her. Only fancy the idea of being seen with a bankrupt's
daughter!" she added scornfully.

"Well, it is not _her_ fault." "I suppose she could not help it," said
one or two of the girls.

"If it is not her fault it is her father's, and of course it is a great
disgrace to the family. I shouldn't think they would ever hold up their
heads again," remarked Julia proudly.

"It is very sad." "I always thought them rich." "Mabel was never proud,"
began a chorus of voices, but the luncheon bell ringing at that moment
put an end to the conversation.

The subject was not forgotten, however, and was referred to again in the
afternoon, when the girls were preparing to return home.

"What do you think the Stanleys will do?" asked a girl of Ethel
Thompson, who having brought the news was expected to know everything
relating to her unfortunate school-fellow's family affairs.

"I don't know," replied Ethel. "Perhaps Mr. Stanley will begin business
again, men do sometimes, you know; or he may go away from the town and
start elsewhere."

"The best thing he can do, I consider," cried Julia. "I can't conceive
how people can show themselves in a place where every one knows they
have failed. I am sure I could not do it. But some persons have coarse
natures and do not feel things as much as others."

"I am quite sure that the Stanleys have feelings as keen as any of us,"
remarked a shy quiet-looking girl. "You know how sensitive poor Mabel
is, and I do hope that if she comes back we shall all be kind to her and
not let her know that we have ever heard about her father's

"That may be your opinion, Nora Ellis," said Julia, "but for my part I
do not choose to associate with a bankrupt's daughter. If she should
return here, of course no one would speak to her; but I do not suppose
that there is any fear of it. Miss Elgin would be making a great mistake
if she were to receive Mabel Stanley, and would be ruining her school
and acting against her own interests."

"I daresay Miss Elgin will do as she thinks best," retorted Ethel
Thompson, sorry to have raised a storm which it was not easy to subdue.

Julia and Ruth did not reach school the following morning until nearly
ten o'clock, the hour at which Miss Elgin's pupils assembled for their
morning classes.

They had scarcely entered the cloak-room before they became aware that
something unusual had occurred, something which was evidently connected
with the young girl standing apart from the rest, at the end of the
room, and looking tearful and timid. In a moment Ruth guessed, from the
scornful expression of her cousin's face, that the new-comer was Mabel
Stanley who had been so freely discussed the previous day, and that the
poor child had met with a very cool reception on her return to school.

Pity for the unfortunate girl, indignation at the freezing glances
bestowed upon her, mingled perhaps with a vague idea of vexing Julia,
caused Ruth to make a sudden resolution to befriend her; and when upon
entering the schoolroom she found that their desks were side by side,
she did not delay to take advantage of the fact and endeavour to set
Mabel at ease by referring to her occasionally for help in little
matters of school routine with which she (Ruth) was unacquainted. The
questions were politely answered, but her sensitive neighbour seemed
either too proud or too shy to respond to her friendly advances.

"Ruth Arnold," exclaimed Julia in the cloak-room at the close of the
day, when Mabel Stanley had dressed quickly in silence and taken her
departure with only a half-whispered "Good-afternoon" to Ruth, "did you
know that the girl you have been sitting next all day is the very one we
were talking about yesterday?"

"Yes, I imagined so," was the quiet reply.

"But I thought you knew that we had all determined to cut her if she
came back, and not to say one word more to her than we were really
obliged," continued Julia.

"Why?" asked Ruth sharply.

"Because she has no business here, because she degrades the school. A
bankrupt's daughter ought not to come here," said Julia haughtily, "and
I hope you will not associate with her."

Ruth's eyes were flashing and her cheeks crimson as she retorted
angrily, "That is no reason why I should not be friendly with her; and
indeed, Julia, I do not intend to ask you whom I am to choose for my

"Do as you like, and go your own way," said Julia with a scornful laugh.
"Mabel must be destitute of all fine feeling, but perhaps you have a
fancy for people of that sort. If any one belonging to me had ever been
a bankrupt, I should never show my face in the town again."

She left the house a moment later with one or two of her chosen friends,
and Ruth was slowly walking home alone, trying to swallow her
indignation, and letting the cool breeze fan her hot cheeks, when Ethel
Thompson overtook her.

"I really think," she began, "that Julia has been terribly down on
Mabel, and I am glad that you took her part and would not give in. Our
coolness to her to-day was all Julia's doing, and I know that she is
wild with you, for she cannot bear to be crossed. But Mabel has not done
anything; and after all, I don't see why we should cut her to please
Julia, who wants to dictate to every one."

Ruth made an indifferent reply, and hastened to change the subject, for
she did not care to discuss her cousin's shortcomings with one whom she
knew but slightly.

Very few words passed between the cousins upon their return home that
evening; but on their way to school the next morning Julia asked
scornfully, "Do you still intend to cultivate your aristocratic
acquaintance, Ruth?"

"I shall do as I please," said the other shortly.

The girls at Miss Elgin's were mostly the children of wealthy parents,
but unhappily many of them, though rich and fashionable, were sadly
lacking in refinement of heart and mind. Money was the god revered and
worshipped in most of their homes, the one thing talked of and held in
honour, and it was not surprising that the girls, from constantly
hearing their neighbours' worth reckoned solely by the amount of money
they possessed, had come to regard it as the chief good, and to consider
the want of it as something like a crime. Julia had been reared in a
somewhat different atmosphere, but she had adopted the tone of her
school-fellows, and even surpassed them in scorn and disdain for those
who were poor or unfortunate.

But she was about to meet with a terrible humiliation.



A tender conscience is easily aroused, and Ruth's had been troubling her
since the previous afternoon. She knew that although she had done right
in befriending Mabel she had not done it in a Christian spirit. She
almost decided that she ought to beg her cousin's pardon, and was even
thinking what it would be advisable to say, when Julia's question
stirred her worst feelings to activity, and she answered curtly that she
should do as she pleased.

A lively conversation was being carried on in the cloak-room, but
suddenly ceased as they entered. The exciting cause of it was Ethel
Thompson, whose busy tongue often brought both herself and others into
trouble. She had carried home a full account of the quarrel between the
cousins the day before, and had concluded by imitating Julia's haughty
manner when she said, "If any one belonging to me had ever been a
bankrupt, I should never show my face in the town again."

"Humph! Did she say that?" asked Mr. Thompson. "Well 'people who live in
glass houses shouldn't throw stones.'"

"Why do you say that?" inquired Ethel curiously.

"Because her own father failed some years ago."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Oh yes, I remember it very well, though I suppose it must have been
quite nine or ten years ago, time flies so fast. But he is a very
prosperous man now."

Ethel did not wait to hear more, but went to school next day full of the
idea of humbling Julia by means of this wonderful piece of news. She had
already whispered it to two or three girls when the cousins appeared at
the door and the bell rang for class.

Julia was rather late, and in her hurry she placed her hat upon the
nearest vacant peg, which happened to be Mabel Stanley's. Mabel entered
at that moment, and seeing that her peg was occupied, quietly asked
Julia to remove her hat. She did so with a very bad grace, and without
saying a word hastened to join her companions in the schoolroom.

"How shamefully Julia Woburn treats that poor child!" said one of the
elder girls who lingered in the cloak-room, "and I hear that it is
simply because Mr. Stanley has failed in business."

"Yes," replied the other, "and what makes it more disgraceful is--that
her own father was a bankrupt not very long ago!"

"Her father? Mr. Woburn? Surely you are mistaken!"

"No, indeed. Ethel Thompson brought the information this morning, and is
quite full of it."

It so happened that Julia was returning to the cloak-room for a book
which she had forgotten, when she heard her own name mentioned, and
pausing for an instant on the threshold overheard all that was said.

She ran in and confronted the two girls, her eyes flashing and her heart
beating fast, and exclaimed, "Did Ethel really say that? How dare she
tell such an untruth!"

"Perhaps it was only a joke," said the girl who had spoken first.

"It is a slander, an insult, and I'll not stand it!" said Julia

They reasoned with her and endeavoured to calm her, but only partially
succeeded in soothing her before she returned to the schoolroom. Her
face still wore an angry sullen expression, and she carefully avoided
Ethel Thompson throughout the morning. Not one lesson could she say, and
she begged to be excused her arithmetic and French on the plea of a
severe headache.

After study hours, when the girls met in recess time, Julia proudly
demanded of Ethel what she meant by spreading such false statements
about her family; and Ethel replied that all she had said was true, and
added that when she heard it she was no longer surprised at Julia's
treatment of Mabel, but saw a reason for it.

Julia, finding that Ethel's report had gained credence among her
school-fellows, was half wild with mortification and rage; and declaring
that she would remain there no longer to be insulted, she dressed
herself and went home, leaving her companions somewhat alarmed at the
storm their foolish conversation had raised.

They had not reflected that one of the most fruitful sources of quarrels
among school-girls is--silly gossip about their relatives and friends.

While Mr. and Mrs. Woburn were sitting at luncheon they were startled by
hearing a violent knock at the door, and the next moment Julia, dressed
in her walking attire, rushed into the room, regardless of everything
but the one idea which possessed her mind, and exclaimed, "Father, tell
me, did you ever fail? Were you ever a bankrupt?"

Mr. Woburn's face changed suddenly, and grew stern and pale.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because they have slandered you and insulted me at school, but I told
them it was false."

"It _was_--true," said Mr. Woburn slowly, "but I fail to see what can
have brought it up now."

"True!" cried Julia, bursting into tears, and sobbing hysterically.
"Then I can never go to Miss Elgin's again."

She threw herself upon the sofa, and for some minutes was unable to
speak, so violent was her passion and anger. In vain her father demanded
an explanation of her strange behaviour, and her mother tried to calm
and soothe her.

"Leave her to me," she said at last. "I am quite at a loss to understand
the matter, but she will tell me when she is better."

Before the sobs had altogether subsided Ruth entered the room: for Miss
Elgin, hearing of Julia's sudden departure, had imagined that her
headache had increased, and at once despatched her cousin to follow her.

"Perhaps you can explain what has happened," said her aunt. "Why have
the girls been talking of your uncle's business affairs?"

"Well, the fact is, auntie, that Mabel Stanley came to school yesterday,
and Julia was cross and rude to her because her father has failed, and
then the girls made up this tale to humble her, and she flew into a rage
and came home."

"Now I understand. But the tale was true, nevertheless. Now, Julia dear,
don't sob. I think I had better tell you all about it, that you may
understand for yourselves.

"I think you know, Julia, that when your father started in life he had
not much capital, and began business in a small way. But he did very
well until there came a time of commercial depression, and a man who
owed him a considerable sum of money died insolvent. Then your father
found that he was so much embarrassed that he thought the wisest and
most honourable course would be to divide what he had amongst his
creditors at once. He gave up everything to them, and was hesitating
what he should do for a living. Just at that time my father died and
left all his little property to me and my brother (your father, Ruth).
My money would not have been sufficient to start another business, but
your father came to our help, and offered to lend his share of the
money. Then my husband was able to start again, and prospered. All his
creditors were paid in full long ago, and my brother's money was repaid
with interest, though nothing, I am sure, can ever repay his kindness in
lending it to us at that particular time, for I fear that he must have
been straitened for years by his generous deed. Now you understand,
Ruth, why I told you that everything I gave you had been more than paid
for long ago, though I did not know that it would be necessary to tell
you how."

Ruth was silent and thoughtful. Her aunt's words gave her the clue to
many things which she had never been able to comprehend. She guessed now
why her father sometimes looked regretfully at a large and excellent
farm a short distance from his own.

"You ought to have taken that farm," she had once heard a neighbour
remark to him.

"Ah! the time for that is gone by," was his reply.

She believed now that the opportunity of taking it had occurred while
the money was embarked in her uncle's business, and that when it was
free the farm and the family had soon absorbed it, for the land was not
very good, and there had been several bad harvests lately.

"Why did you never tell me before?" asked Julia peevishly, from the

"Why, dear? Well, you know it is never pleasant to talk about our
failures. Your father has not referred to the subject, even to me, for
years, and I could see that he was exceedingly annoyed by your mention
of it just now. You were but an infant at the time, and it is so long
ago that it seemed to have been forgotten. But I have looked back
sometimes since we have grown rich, and thought with pleasure of my
brother's kindness."

"Still it is true," whined Julia, "and," she added passionately, "I can
never look at Ethel Thompson or any of the girls again."

"That is very silly," said her mother.

"Indeed I cannot--never--_never_, and I am the most wretched girl in
England, and shall never be happy again!"

Her sobs were renewed with redoubled violence, and she looked really ill
from vexation and passion. Mrs. Woburn gave her some cooling medicine
and persuaded her to go to bed.

But Ruth did not pity her cousin. She worked alone at her lessons that
evening, and when the thought of Julia crossed her mind her lips
tightened and she said to herself, "She deserves to be ill. She treated
Mabel unkindly, and now it has come back to her, and she is suffering
for it. Yes, she deserves it." And before she went to rest that night
she read in her little Bible a few verses about the sin of pride, with a
mental reference to Julia, and also some passages concerning
retribution, and wrong-doing coming home to the sinner.

She was not following in the footsteps of the Lord, who hates sin, yet
loves the sinner, but thought only of her cousin's just punishment, and
wondered how she would bear to meet all her school-fellows again. She
was not cherishing the love that vaunteth not itself, that is not puffed
up, that rejoiceth not in iniquity; the love that never faileth, and
that covers a multitude of sins.

Was there not something of the spirit of the Pharisee in Ruth's heart?
Was she not beginning to sit in the seat of the scornful, and to look
down upon her cousin from her superior position? Well, pride must have a
fall, sooner or later, whether it be pride of position or pride of



Ruth went to school alone the next morning, for Julia was so unwell from
the excitement of the day that she seemed quite ill and feverish, and
was scarcely able to lift her head from the pillow. Her eyes had dark
rims round them, her head ached terribly, and she was certainly quite
unfit to attend to her studies and to meet her school-fellows.

None of the girls liked to ask Ruth what had happened after her return
home, and they scarcely ventured to inquire for her cousin. They
evidently felt that they had gone too far, and began to speak kindly to
Mabel and to treat her in their usual manner.

But the poor girl could not easily forget the slights she had received,
and amid their new-born kindness she turned naturally to the one who had
befriended her while the others behaved rudely. She soon grew quite
intimate with Ruth, and even ventured to speak of the trouble which had
befallen her father that summer, and of her future prospects.

"Of course," she said, "papa would not have thought of allowing me to
remain at such an expensive school as Miss Elgin's, but grandmamma has
kindly promised to pay the expenses of my education for two years, and
if I study hard for that time I hope that I shall be able to teach, and
to help papa and mamma."

Ruth could thoroughly sympathise with her friend, and entered into her
feelings, her hopes and aspirations, for was she not working with the
same object in view? Did she not desire to help _her_ father and mother
by teaching the younger children?

Thus their friendship grew and strengthened during Julia's absence,
which lasted quite a week.

She, poor child, was quite unstrung, and for two or three days the very
mention of school brought on a fit of hysterical crying, and she begged
that she might be allowed to go to some boarding-school at a distance,
anywhere--away from Busyborough. Mrs. Woburn was inclined to yield to
her wish; but her father would not hear of such a thing, and declared
that she had brought all the trouble upon herself by her own folly, and
she must bear the consequences of it. He was, in fact, excessively angry
with his spoilt child, and believed that her return to school would be a
severe punishment which she richly deserved.

When Mr. Woburn spoke in that decided way there was nothing to be done
but to obey. His wife, however, called upon Miss Elgin, and explained
the reason of Julia's absence, begging that she would ask the girls to
receive her kindly, without referring to the cause of the quarrel, as
she had already suffered a good deal.

Miss Elgin was astonished to hear of the affair, which had perplexed and
puzzled her not a little; for, as her pupils had all felt themselves
more or less to blame in the matter, they had all kept it from her
knowledge, and she had only guessed from their reticence, and the air of
mystery with which they received every allusion to their absent
school-fellow, that something was wrong. Before morning school she
called the girls together, told them how pained and grieved she had
been, and gave them a little lecture upon the duty of ruling the tongue,
and the folly of valuing people only for their wealth or position
instead of their goodness and virtue. The girls listened in silence, and
when Julia returned, looking very much ashamed and humbled after her
vain boasting, they made no allusion to her fiery outburst, and in a few
days she had regained her old place in the school and everything went on
as usual.

Lessons, classes, exercises, and lectures were crowded into each day.
Ruth had plenty to do, and found that she must work very hard if she
wished to succeed, and to take a good place in the school. She was
astonished to see how indolent some of the girls were; to find that many
of them did not care for knowledge for its own sake, but regarded their
lessons as a trouble, and were continually begging to be allowed to
leave off this or that study. And she was still more surprised and
shocked to find how many of the exercises were merely copied from old
books, with perhaps a few slight mistakes inserted to prevent suspicion.
On more than one occasion, Ruth gave offence by refusing to lend her
books for this purpose, or to avail herself of proffered assistance; but
she persevered steadily, and declared that she would rather make a few
mistakes than evade a difficulty which she could not surmount, as she
would be sure to meet it again.

Miss Elgin was not long in perceiving that Ruth was a conscientious
girl, anxious to learn, and in many little ways she contrived to help
and encourage her.

As the weather grew colder and winter advanced, the old home-life at the
farm seemed very far away, and somehow the home letters were not so full
of interest as they had once been. How trivial and childish it seemed to
read about the new kittens, the chickens, the nuts in the woods, and the
apples in the orchard, and the many little details with which the
children's letters were filled, when one was studying chemistry and
reading Milton and Shakespeare. Her mother's letters were always
welcome, but they were very rare.

The comfort and luxury of her new home were beginning to make a visible
alteration in her. Already she looked and felt quite a different person
from the little Ruth Arnold who sometimes milked the cows, or helped
with the house-work when the servants were busy. Her brown curls had
long since given place to a long plait like Julia's, her clothes were of
richer materials and made in a more fashionable style, and she had what
seemed at first an abundant supply of pocket-money. The only day on
which she really longed to be back at Cressleigh was Sunday. It had
always been such a happy day at the farm, the only rest day of the busy
father and mother, and always spent with the children. There were of
course certain duties which could not be neglected, but these were
quickly done, and then the whole family went together to the house of
God. In the afternoon the children all went to Sunday-school, where Will
was promoted to the post of teacher, and Mr. and Mrs. Arnold had a quiet
hour together with no one but the baby to disturb them. There was rarely
any service in the evening, but it was a pleasant time for the children,
who in fine summer weather sat on the lawn and sang their favourite
hymns, or on winter evenings gathered round the old piano in the
well-worn parlour while their mother or Ruth played, or listened while
their father talked or read some good and interesting book. All went to
bed early, and rose in the morning refreshed and strengthened by the joy
and repose of the day of rest.

But Sunday at Busyborough was quite a different matter. Every one was
expected to attend public worship once during the day, but Gerald was
often missing, and the others did not appear to take much pleasure in
going. Mr. Woburn had a pew in a handsome church close by, and also at a
large Nonconformist chapel in the neighbourhood. His wife usually
attended the latter, but Julia preferred the church, where the service
was very elaborate. She hated long sermons, she said, and liked to have
something to look at. Ruth accompanied her once or twice, but found the
morning service, to which she had been accustomed all her life, so
differently rendered that at first she could hardly follow it. The dear
old Psalms, which had always been read at Cressleigh by the clergyman
and the people led by the parish clerk, sounded so strange and
unfamiliar when chanted by a surpliced choir. The intoning, the
processions, and everything else, were so strange, that Ruth was afraid
to join in the service.

After going a few times she decided to accompany her aunt, for although
the service of the chapel was unfamiliar she was able to enter into the
spirit of it, and could appreciate and enjoy the sermon delivered by a
clever and eloquent preacher.

The family dined early on Sundays, and then the miserable part of the
day began for Ruth. There was "nothing to do on Sundays," Julia said,
and indeed there seemed to be no occupation provided. No one thought of
going to Sunday-school, as Ruth had once timidly suggested, although
Julia sometimes went to church when there was a special musical service.
At other times she would begin to read; then she would fidget or strum
on the piano, greatly to the annoyance of her father, who always took a
Sunday afternoon nap, and of Ernest, who buried himself in a book.
Gerald went out, Rupert got into all sorts of mischief, and Ruth was
left to her own devices.

In the evening the girls wrote their Scripture exercises, under cover of
which Julia often did other lessons, though this was quite contrary to
the express orders of her father, who was very anxious that his children
should have a "proper regard for the day." There was continual
bickering, many disputes and petty quarrels, and when bed-time came
every one was weary and cross, and seemed glad the day was over. No
wonder that Ruth often longed and sighed for one of the happy old
Sundays at home.



Gerald was less known to his cousin than any other member of the family,
for he spent very little time in her society. He usually rose late, and
after a hasty breakfast hurried away to the office whither his father
had already gone. The girls did not see him again until six o'clock when
he returned to dinner, frequently going out directly it was over to
spend the evening with his friends.

Yet, although Ruth saw but little of him, that little astonished her.
She could never forget that he was only a year or two older than Will. A
year or two made a great difference, she knew, but could Will ever
become such a well-dressed fashionable young man, who grumbled at his
mother if the dinner was not to his mind, scolded the servants, and
argued and talked to his father just as if he were a man of his own age?

Ruth thought not, and hoped not.

The short November days were cold and dreary, school duties seemed to
increase, and the girls were beginning to talk of the coming
examinations, and to look forward to the Christmas holidays and

In spite of hard work Ruth found it a difficult matter to do all her
lessons thoroughly, and although she was strong and healthy and not
easily fatigued, the effort was beginning to tell upon her.

One fine Wednesday her aunt persuaded her to take a holiday. The rest
was very pleasant, but she had a certain amount of work to finish by the
end of the week, and sat up rather late the next night over her French
translation. She was obliged to give up at last, and went to bed quite
dissatisfied with her evening's work. But when she laid her head upon
the pillow sleep quite forsook her. She tossed and turned, but all in
vain, sleep would not come; her mind was full of the paragraph she had
been endeavouring to translate, and she felt sure that she could do it
much better, if only it were not so late.

Might she not scribble down a few of the sentences which had puzzled
her, but were now quite clear? Of course her aunt would not like it, but
then she need never know. It could not be any worse to write than to lie
in bed and think, she argued, and it would be such a relief to get it

She sprang out of bed, turned up the gas, put on her pretty flannel
dressing gown and woollen shoes, drew up a comfortable easy-chair, and
then remembered that she had left all her books and papers downstairs,
in the little room opening out of the hall where she and Julia prepared
their lessons.

"Never mind, I can get it without disturbing any one," she said, as she
lighted a bedroom candle and crept downstairs very softly in her
woollen shoes, shading the candle as she passed the bedroom doors that
the light might not be seen.

The house was very still and quiet: not a sound was to be heard but the
ticking of the great clock in the hall. Ruth did not look at it, she did
not care to know the time, for she was sure it was very late. The little
study looked cold and desolate by the light of her solitary candle, and
the ashes in the grate still moved and made a slight rustling which
sounded very plainly. Ruth had just gathered up her books and papers
when the hall clock struck close to her, one long solemn stroke.

One o'clock! It was very late she owned, and very lonely down there.

Hark! what was that? Surely the clock was striking again. No, it was a
different sound and came from the front-door. Some person was evidently
trying to open it. Ruth's heart stood still. All the terrible stories
she had ever heard of burglars and midnight robberies came to her mind,
and at the same time the unpleasant conviction that she had stepped
aside from the path of duty and thus brought herself into danger.

Her presence of mind was quite gone. She feared that her candle might
attract attention, but dared not extinguish it and be alone in the dark
with--she knew not whom. Holding her breath she stood for a moment
gazing fixedly towards the door. It was opened softly and cautiously,
and the figure of a man entered the hall and carefully fastened the
bolts of the door. Ruth was too terrified to scream, and as the light of
her candle fell upon his face she suddenly recognised her

He started when he saw the light and his little cousin's scared pale
face, and exclaimed, "What is the matter, Ruth?"

"Oh, Gerald, how you have frightened me!" she said, trembling violently.
"Where have you been?"

"What are you doing here?" he asked, evading her question.

"I couldn't sleep, and came down to fetch my books, and I--I heard you
at the door, and thought you were a burglar."

"Do you often stroll about at night?" he inquired curiously.

"No, indeed. And I have been so terrified that I am sure I will never do
it again. I am very sorry, but I will tell auntie all about it
to-morrow," she said, taking her candle and moving towards the stairs.

"Ruth," said Gerald, in an agitated whisper, "wait a minute."

She turned so that the light fell full upon his face, and saw that he
looked white and anxious.

"May I ask you, as a favour, not to mention your adventure with the
burglar? Perhaps it would be better for both of us to be silent about
to-night's occurrence."

"Why? Where have you been, Gerald? You went to bed before ten o'clock,
and"--a thought struck her--"how came the door to be unbolted?"

"Now, Ruth," he said coaxingly, "I know you are a good-natured little
thing, and I don't believe you would do me a bad turn. You know the
governor is always down upon me, won't let me have a latch-key, and says
I must be in by half-past ten. A fellow can't live without a little
pleasure, and if the governor won't let me have it I must take it. But
don't say a word, there's a dear, or you will get me into an awful row."

"But it is so wrong to deceive your father and mother," urged Ruth,
thinking that after all Gerald was not so "grown-up" as he seemed. "Do
you often go out at night?"

"No, very seldom."

It was not true, but he was anxious to conciliate her.

"Well, Ruth, shall we promise each other that we won't say a word about

"I don't know. I don't mind telling auntie what I have done, though I
know it was wrong and foolish, but, of course, I don't want to get you
into trouble. Yet--I can't tell lies----"

"Of course not; I wouldn't wish it. But you can be silent--yes, I
believe you can--and I want you to promise me on your word as a good
little cousin, that you will not mention what has happened to any one."

"Very well," she said, turning away slowly.

"Gerald, will you promise me something?"

"Anything you like."

They were almost upstairs now, and he was anxious for her to be silent.

"Promise that you won't go out at night again without letting your
father know."

"I'll promise," was his whispered reply; and they separated.

Another moment, and Ruth was in her own room, but without the books for
which she had gone downstairs. She had forgotten them and the
translation in her astonishment about Gerald, and when she lay in bed
once more her mind was full of her strange adventure, and she began to
wonder if she had done right in giving her promise so quickly, without
any reflection.

A promise was to her a sacred thing, not to be lightly given or easily
broken, but she comforted herself with the thought that she was really
doing good to her cousin. Had he not promised her in return that he
would give up these forbidden pleasures? And was not that something to
rejoice over?

She did not know enough of the world to reflect that one who wilfully
deceived his parents was hardly likely to keep a promise so readily made
to his little country cousin.



After the events of that night Gerald took more notice of Ruth, spoke
kindly to her, and often remarked upon her studious industry, usually to
his sister's disparagement. Although she was not very fond of Julia,
Ruth could not help feeling that this must be very galling to her, for
Julia certainly seemed more fond of Gerald than of any other person, and
she felt his sarcastic remarks very keenly.

He appeared to be keeping his promise, for he came down to breakfast in
good time and did not look so pale and languid as usual. But Ruth soon
forgot both Gerald and her promise for a time in a matter of great
importance to herself--the school examination.

She had been working steadily throughout the term, and was very anxious
to pass the examination creditably, more especially as, in addition to
the usual prizes, Miss Elgin had offered one for general improvement,
which she was very desirous of obtaining. It would, she knew, be such a
joy to her father and mother, who were expecting great things of her,
and their pride and approval would be more to her than the honour of
receiving the prize.

In English studies Ruth had made very considerable progress, and did not
much fear the result of the examination, but she was not so sure about
French. That was always her weak point, perhaps on account of the very
English fashion in which she had learnt it at Miss Green's. Still she
persevered with it, and had some hopes of success.

But when the hour of the examination came, and the papers were given
out, her courage almost failed.

There were grammatical questions, phrases to be explained, and short
sentences to be translated into French. These she understood fairly, but
the paragraph that filled her with dismay was a short French poem of
three verses to be put into English prose. She read it again and again,
but, from the idioms and inversions it contained, totally failed to
comprehend its meaning. Indeed, she could see from the significant
glances which--talking being forbidden--were exchanged between the
girls, that she was not the only one who failed to appreciate the
beauty, or even the sense of the poem.

"It's of no use," she sighed; "I must leave it and answer some
questions. If I have time afterwards, I may, perhaps, do one verse."

For a whole hour there was not a sound to be heard but the scratching of
busy pens and the rustling of papers or the tapping of idle fingers,
waiting to put down the thoughts that would not come.

Julia was writing very fast. She was more proficient in French than in
any other study. She liked it, and easily caught the sounds, and was
very proud of the fact that she had once spent a few days in Paris with
her mother. She had also profited by her friendship with a French girl,
one of Miss Elgin's boarders, who had come to the place quite unable to
speak English. Julia had taken a fancy to mademoiselle, and in
conversation with her picked up several unusual phrases, and became
familiar with many of the idioms, though her knowledge of the grammar
was still very meagre.

The poem which perplexed the other girls was less difficult to her than
the grammatical questions, and she wrote away busily translating it. She
was seated at a desk just in front of Ruth, who looked up after writing
her answers, wondering what she could do about the poem. The time
allowed for the paper was drawing to a close. Julia had finished her
translation, and was holding it in her hand, reading it over to see if
it required any correction. Her writing was large, firm, and clear, and
as she held up the paper Ruth's eye fell upon it, and, almost
unconsciously, she read the whole of her cousin's translation.

The meaning of the poem was no longer a mystery to her. She understood
it now, and could easily translate it.

Without stopping to think if it were right or wrong, she seized her pen
and wrote the words as they came to her mind. Naturally enough they were
almost identical with those she had read on her cousin's paper. But she
did not stop to think, and had scarcely finished the last word when the
clock struck, and the papers were immediately collected, Ruth's not
having been even read over.

"How many questions did you answer?" "What have you done?" "How _did_
you get on with that dreadful translation?" asked the girls of each
other when school hours were over and their tongues were once more

"I suppose that you have done it, Julia, you are so clever at French,"
said Ethel.

"It really wasn't difficult," replied Julia carelessly. "What have you
done, Ruth?"

"I think I answered nearly all the questions," was the reply.

"And the poem?"

"Yes, I did it."

Julia looked rather surprised, but she said nothing, though several of
the girls were loud in their exclamations of wonder that Ruth should
even have attempted it.

She listened rather impatiently to their remarks, for already she felt
ashamed of the advantage she had taken, and would gladly have seized the
paper upon which her translation was written and thrown it upon the

But it had gone out of her possession and was hers no longer.



"I can't think what has happened to Ruth, she is not at all like her
usual self," remarked Ernest that evening.

He had been playfully teasing his cousin about her studies, when she
suddenly answered him sharply, burst into a violent flood of tears, and
ran away to her own room.

"She is crosser than ever," said Julia.

"Poor child!" sighed Mrs. Woburn; "I am afraid she has been working too
hard. I am glad for her sake that the holidays are so near. She is so
anxious to do well, and to-day's examination has tried her sadly."

Meanwhile Ruth, upstairs in her own room, was sobbing bitterly, and
thinking hard thoughts of herself. The examination _had_ tried her, but
not half as much as the loss of self-respect she had felt since she gave
up her papers that morning with the translation which was certainly not
the result of her own work.

"I wish I had never left home," she thought; "everything is going wrong,
it is so difficult to do right here. If only I had not seen Julia's
translation. If I had never promised Gerald that I would not mention
about his coming in so late. Oh, I wish I were back at Cressleigh!"

With the thought of home, which to her troubled mind seemed so calm and
peaceful, came the remembrance of her mother's words, "I should have no
fear for you if I were sure that you were not going alone, if I knew
that you had an almighty Friend with you to lead you in the right way."

She knew that she had strayed out of the right way, and she had not far
to seek for the reason. Ever since she came to Busyborough she had been
growing careless about the things of eternity, and had ceased to take
delight in reading God's Word and in prayer.

The Bible upon her dressing-table was read daily, it is true, and both
morning and evening Ruth knelt for a few moments in prayer. But the
sweet meaning was gone from the texts, and the prayer was little better
than a form; there was no life in either.

When the young girl went to live at her uncle's house, she found that
the lives of those with whom she came into daily contact were not ruled
by the same principles and motives as her own. At first she grieved and
prayed for her cousins, then she became self-sufficient and wise in her
own conceit; and having once allowed the unchristian spirit of pride and
dislike for Julia to creep into her heart and take possession, other
evils had quickly followed, and had gradually drawn her farther and
farther away from her Saviour. She began to see it all that night, and
to realize how far off she was; but the knowledge only increased her
wretchedness, and made her more miserable. Suddenly a thought struck
her. Would it not be wise and right to go to Miss Elgin before school
the next morning, to confess that she had yielded to temptation, and to
ask that the obnoxious translation might at once be burnt?

But Ruth angrily resisted the notion. Confess that _she_, who bore the
character of the most conscientious and trustworthy girl in the school,
had stooped to do the very thing which she had so often censured in
others? No, never. It would be too degrading and humiliating. Perhaps,
after all, Julia's translation was not correct. There might be many
faults in her own, and it was very unlikely that she would get a high
number of marks for her French paper.

Thus she tried to quiet her conscience, and to banish uncomfortable
suggestions. It was the 22nd of December, and the prizes were to be
given away on the 23rd. It was not yet known who were to receive them,
and, as school work was virtually over, there was a good deal of talk
and speculation concerning them. Finishing touches were being given to
drawings and maps, desks were being put in order, and books arranged,
all in preparation for the festive morrow.

"Miss Arnold, will you go at once to Miss Elgin, in the library?" said
one of the teachers in charge of the restless chattering crowd of girls.

Ruth obeyed, and left the room with a heightened colour, and the girls
began to wonder why she had been summoned.

"It is about the prize for general improvement, I believe," said Ethel
Thompson. "I heard Miss Elgin telling Miss Lee that she thought Ruth
deserved it for 'her steady and conscientious work.'"

"Well, there is no doubt that she has worked hard," said one of her

"Come in," said Miss Elgin, in response to Ruth's tap at the library
door. "Sit down, dear; I want to ask you a question."

The governess was seated in her study chair, looking over the piles of
examination papers heaped upon the table, and entering the numbers of
marks in a small red book.

"I want to ask you a question," she repeated. "Did any one help you with
your French paper?"

Ruth was taken aback. She did not wish to tell a falsehood, and yet she
felt that she could not, _could_ not confess now. Her face grew crimson,
and a crowd of thoughts surged through her brain. The form in which the
question was put tempted her, and she argued with herself, "No one
helped me. How could Julia help me without knowing? I helped myself."
And after a moment's pause, in which she seemed to be listening for her
own reply, her lips moved and repeated the expression of her thoughts,
"No--no one helped me."

"Excuse my asking you, but your paper was so remarkably good that I
could hardly understand your having so few faults, especially in the
translation, which was really difficult. I suppose," she added with a
smile, "that you have already concluded that your steady application and
diligent work will meet with their deserved reward. That will do. You
may go now."

She returned to the schoolroom in silence, her mind full of two ideas:
the first, that she had obtained the prize; the second, that she had
deceived Miss Elgin.

"But I have not told an untruth," she argued with her conscience. "I was
asked if any one helped me. Julia did not help me. I only saw and read
her paper accidentally."

It was very trying work, arguing with conscience when a number of
chattering girls were buzzing about, laughing and asking questions, and
Ruth gave several sharp and pettish replies to their inquiries, and was
rallied upon her silence and her grave face.

How often it happens that our hardest battles have to be fought in the
midst of a crowd, that our moments of sharpest agony and keenest remorse
come at a time when we long for solitude, but cannot obtain it, but must
go on speaking and acting as if our minds were quite at ease, and full
of nothing but the trifling affairs of the moment.

Ruth's conscience was very active, and would keep reminding her that it
was not yet too late to go and confess to Miss Elgin. But she put it
off. Alas! every moment that had elapsed since she gave up the paper
rendered such a task more difficult; the longer she concealed her fault
the more serious it became. Looking quite pale and wretched, she
returned home that afternoon with a splitting headache. Her aunt was
quite troubled about her, though she tried to make light of it, and Mr.
Woburn said cheerily, "You must make haste and get well for to-morrow,
Ruth. I suppose you will have a grand prize to bring home after all this
term's work."

"Indeed, I would rather not go to-morrow morning," she replied
sincerely, as she wished them good-night.



But when the morning came she could find no plausible excuse for
absenting herself from the prize-giving. Her head was better, though she
still looked pale, and Mrs. Woburn, who was to accompany the two girls,
would not hear of her remaining at home.

Sick at heart, and anxious for the whole business to be over, Ruth
followed her aunt and cousin into the schoolroom, where the desks had
been cleared away, and the drawings and work of the pupils were arranged
for exhibition.

A number of visitors had already arrived, and were walking round
inspecting the drawings, etc., and chatting in little groups, until Mr.
Redcliffe, a gentleman of influence and wide repute, entered the
schoolroom and took his seat. He made a little speech upon the value of
education, complimented Miss Elgin upon her excellent system of
instruction and the proficiency of her pupils, and said a few words of
congratulation and encouragement to each of the girls as they came
forward to receive their prizes.

Ruth's turn came last, and perhaps on that account his words to her were
even kinder and more appreciative. He considered that the prize for
general improvement was perhaps better worth having than any other,
because, in order to gain it, one must indeed have proved worthy, he
said to the blushing girl who stood before him, trembling and full of
shame, which, however, appeared to be humility.

The longed-for moment had come at last, and Ruth held in her hand the
prize for which she had worked and striven. Yes, she had gained it, but
at what a cost!

At the cost of truth and honour, of right principle and self-respect. It
was a very poor exchange for them, and the unhappy girl would gladly
have given it up, would have borne any disappointment, anything but the
humiliation of confession, to have been her old light-hearted innocent
self again. But she had done wrong, and although she shrank from pain,
she had to bear what, in her state of mind, was indeed a trial--the kind
congratulations of her school-fellows, and the praises of her teacher
and friends. Even when she reached home the trial was not over, for her
uncle and cousins had each some kind word to say.

"And now, my dear, you must write to your father and mother," said Mrs.
Woburn that afternoon. "How proud and delighted they will be to hear of
your success!"

_That letter!_ It was the hardest task of all to write and tell her
parents what she knew would give them so much pleasure, while she was
concealing the fact which would, if known, give them far greater pain.
She spent the afternoon writing and re-writing it, and at last sent off
a stiff, constrained little note, informing them that she had been
successful, and hoped they were all well.

When Mrs. Arnold received the letter, she read it again and again. She
felt convinced, from the absence of any playful remarks, from Ruth's
unusual brevity and lack of detail, that something was wrong; but she
knew that if her daughter did not write freely she could not _force_ her
confidence. So she carried the trouble to her Heavenly Father, and asked
Him to lead and guide her absent child.

Christmas was upon them almost before Ruth was aware of it, the gayest
and most festive Christmas time that she had ever known, a round of
parties, pleasure and merriment. It needs a mind at peace to be able to
enter into and enjoy the innocent pleasures of life, and to feel no
bitterness when they are past. And Ruth, in spite of the presents she
received, the parties to which she was invited, and the pretty dresses
she wore, was troubled in mind, and therefore unhappy.

Two things weighed heavily upon her, her own deceit, and her promise to

She had been so carefully trained, and so early taught the difference
between right and wrong, that she could not look upon her prize without
being reminded of the temptation to which she had so suddenly yielded,
and the equivocation to which she had resorted in order to hide it.

Then her promise to Gerald troubled her greatly. She felt almost sure,
though she could not prove it, that he was not keeping his word. He came
down in the morning very late, looking pale and haggard, scarcely tasted
his breakfast, and hurried away to the office; and when he returned in
the evening either pooh-poohed his mother's anxious inquiries about his
health, or answered her curtly and snappishly.

Everything was going wrong, Ruth said to herself continually.

She had done very wrong, had taken a false step, and she felt truly
enough that no power on earth could alter that fact. And having once
started on a downward path it seemed of no use to try to stop and to do
better in future: she must give up all her struggles to do right, and go
down, down. It requires a very hardened sinner to forget the past, and
begin again as if nothing had happened; or a very humble Christian to
start again, after repeated failures, in dependence upon God. Ruth's
self-sufficiency was gone, and she sadly admitted to herself that she
was no better than Julia and the other girls. She had given up reading
her Bible now, thinking its sweet messages were not for her, a wayward,
erring one, and would scarcely dare to pray even for the safety and
well-being of the dear ones at home. Too broken-spirited to make
resolutions which she felt herself to be too weak to carry out, afraid
to open her Bible and read therein her own condemnation, and feeling
that her sin had raised a barrier, which she was unable to remove,
between herself and God, the New Year began in sorrow and sadness. "Your
sins have separated between you and your God." These words were
continually in her mind, and the remembrance of the peace and joy which
she had once felt in thinking of the things belonging to the kingdom
only made her more miserable.



"Hark! what was that?" exclaimed Ruth one night, starting up in bed.

She had been half-dozing, half-dreaming, when she was startled by a
slight noise downstairs, as if something had fallen.

"I believe it is Gerald. I will go down at once, and tell him that as he
has not kept his word I am no longer bound by my promise."

She sprang out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown and shoes, and
hurried downstairs, anxious to meet her cousin before he went up to his
room, and to get rid of the embargo which rested so heavily upon her.

Down the stairs and into the hall she went without meeting him. The
front-door was fastened and bolted securely. Had she been mistaken, or
had he already gone to his room?

One moment she stood in perplexity and doubt. Then hearing a slight
noise, and seeing a bright light shining under the door of the little
study, she turned the handle and opened the door to enter, but stepped
back, half-blinded by the cloud of smoke which immediately enveloped
her. The next moment she discovered the form of Gerald, who was
evidently asleep in his chair, bending over the table, upon which were
some blazing papers. The table itself was on fire, and the cloth that
covered it was smouldering and giving forth volumes of smoke.

[Illustration: ruth-26.jpg]

Ruth gave a piercing scream, which alarmed the household, rushed into
the room, caught up the heavy rug and threw it over the table, seized
her cousin by the arm, and tried with all her might to drag him from the

Before she succeeded in arousing him her aunt and uncle came to her
relief, drawn thither by her cry of alarm. They were soon followed by
the terrified servants, who, under Mr. Woburn's direction, quickly
extinguished the fire and removed Gerald.

The young man was soon restored to consciousness, and started up with a
bewildered look, but his face assumed an expression of fear and horror
as he gradually realized how narrowly he had escaped from a dreadful

"Oh, Gerald! How did it occur?" asked his mother, giving utterance to
the question which had been uppermost in the minds of all.

"Don't ask," he almost groaned; "and yet you must know it, sooner or

"Do tell everything, Gerald," implored Ruth, who, now that the terror
and excitement were over, stood pale and shivering. "It was partly my
fault, you know; I ought not to have made that promise."

Thus entreated, Gerald told them the story of his faults and follies; of
his midnight carousals and their discovery by Ruth, of his overwhelming
love of pleasure, of half-hours stolen from the office during his
father's absence and of work neglected. He went on to say that the chief
clerk had told him, a few days before, that he really must inform Mr.
Woburn how shamefully neglected were the books under his son's care;
that he dreaded his father's anger, and promised to write up the books
and finish his work before the end of January. For this purpose he had
brought home the books and worked at them stealthily by night until
drowsiness overtook him, and he probably knocked over the candle which
had done the mischief.

Mr. Woburn felt more anger than he dared to show at such a time, just
after his son's deliverance from a horrible fate, and he turned the
subject by applauding Ruth's presence of mind and bravery.

"Don't praise me, I can't bear it! I am as bad as Gerald!" she sobbed,
and rushed away to her own room.

Before daylight the next morning Mrs. Woburn was at her door with a
steaming cup of coffee.

"Drink this, my dear," she said. "How your hand trembles! I was afraid
that you would feel ill after your dreadful fright. Indeed, dear," she
said, her eyes full of tears, "I can never thank you, never feel half
grateful enough for your brave rescue of my poor Gerald."

"Don't say that, auntie. If--if anything had happened, it would have
been my fault. I ought to have told you of his wrong-doing long ago."

"It was only your goodness of heart, darling," said her aunt kindly.

"But it wasn't _right_, auntie. I deceived you. Oh dear! I feel such a
bundle of deceit. I've deceived every one," she said under a sudden
impulse. "No, don't stop me; I must tell you all about it."

Then she poured into her ear the whole story of the prize as well as her
promise to Gerald, and finished by saying that she had been perfectly
miserable all through the holidays.

Mrs. Woburn was surprised and somewhat shocked at this recital; but she
was good-natured, and her sense of wrong had been growing dull so many
years that she failed to understand Ruth's emotion.

"Poor child!" she said gently, "it has been very bad for you, but it is
all over now, and you will do better in future."

"Oh, auntie, how can I?" she exclaimed, as she thought what a different
reply her mother would have made.

"I must tell Miss Elgin," she said resolutely; "and I suppose all the
girls must know, and Julia, and--and father and mother."

"Do you think that necessary, dear? You are very sorry, I am sure. Is
not that enough?"

"Nothing can make it right, I know, auntie; but I cannot, and will not,
deceive them any longer."

Ruth burst into a fit of hysterical crying, and was only quieted by her
aunt's promise to go with her that very day to call upon Miss Elgin.

"Poor Ruth seems quite ill," said Mrs. Woburn at breakfast-time. "I
persuaded her to stay in bed a little while, and I think she will be
better soon. She has made quite a confession to me."

"What was it about?" inquired Julia.

Then, according to her niece's wish, she repeated the whole story,
concluding with the remark that, after all, it was not quite such a
serious matter as the poor child seemed to think. She remembered that
girls used to copy when she went to school, and they worked so hard now
that it really was somewhat excusable.

"You would think it was serious if you heard Ruth denounce it," was
Julia's reply. "She could never say enough against it, and pretended to
be so much better than any of us. To think of her having looked over me!
I couldn't have believed it!"

Ernest made no remark, though he listened attentively to the

The visit to Miss Elgin, which Mrs. Woburn did not consider necessary,
was a very trying ordeal. _She_ certainly did not make light of the
matter, although she did not think it would be advisable to tell the
girls; it would be sufficient for them to know that Ruth was under her

"I feared at first that there was something wrong," she said, "but I
could not doubt your word, Ruth; I have always trusted to your high
principle and honour. Henceforth I must act differently, and you must
not expect to be trusted."

There was no palliation of the offence, which she surveyed from her high
stand-point of justice alone.

"Now, Ruth, your troubles are over," said her aunt gaily as they
returned home.

"Over! Are they?" she sighed wearily to herself, "when I have to write
home, and to live next term under Miss Elgin's displeasure, and all my
life with the remembrance of this behind me!"

It was a great trial to have to write home to dispel her mother's fond
hopes and her father's pride in her; to tell them that their Ruth was
not the frank, open, truth-loving girl they had always believed her; to
prove to them that one of their children could stoop to equivocation and
deceit. Yes, it was a hard and bitter task, and she shed a good many
tears over it as she wrote, almost oblivious of everything else in the
little study, where the traces of the fire still remained.

Presently she raised her head, and saw Ernest looking at her--not
curiously, but with a kind, compassionate gaze.

"Ruth," he said, in a low tone, "I am awfully sorry for you, but I can't
understand why you should be so unhappy _now_."

"I shall always be wretched," said Ruth bitterly; "all my life, I

"I--I thought when first you came here that you were a Christian," said
the boy timidly.

"I thought so too," sobbed Ruth, "but I suppose I was wrong. Everything
goes wrong here, and that happy time is so far away."

"But if you have confessed to God, and have His forgiveness, the
happiness will come again."

"Confess to _Him_? How could I? He is such a long way off now, and there
is such a gulf between that I cannot pray to Him."

"Oh, Ruth; you are making a great mistake. You know that Jesus died on
purpose to put away sin, to break down the wall, to bridge over the
gulf. He is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever. It is you that
have changed, not Christ. Go to Him at once; it is of no use humbling
yourself and confessing to others if you stop away from Him. He only can
forgive and send peace."

"'Your sins have separated between you and your God,'" said Ruth

"'The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin,'" replied
her cousin.

"Ernest, you are a Christian!" said Ruth suddenly.

"Yes, I hope so," replied the boy, reddening as his shyness and
self-consciousness returned.

"Why did you never talk to me before?" asked Ruth; "you might have
helped me so much. I thought I was all alone and better than the rest."

"It was wrong, I know," he replied, "but I am so foolish I cannot talk
about these things; yet I felt so sorry for you just now, for I thought
you had forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

"How much God loves you. 'Like as a father pitieth his children,' you
know, Ruth."

She made no reply, but slipped away to her own room to lay her heavy
burden at the feet of the Crucified One.

I remember hearing some years ago of a little child who, being reproved
for some naughty deed, seemed very unhappy, and was seen to steal into a
room close by, where he knelt down and lisped in his baby tones, "Dear
God, _mis'able_." How much there was in that tiny prayer, that one word!
It was indeed the essence of heartfelt prayer, the laying down of the
soul's burden.

Ruth could hardly find words in which to express the cry of her heart,
but when she went downstairs half an hour later there was a peaceful
look upon her face and a gladness in her very step which had been
wanting since she came to Busyborough. She had sought and obtained
pardon, and had rejoiced once more in the sweet texts which she read in
her Bible. She added a long postscript to her home letter, and that
night Ernest found upon his dressing-table a little twisted note
containing these words--

     "Dear Ernest,--Thank you for ever and ever.

     "Your forgiven and happy cousin,




The holidays were over about the end of January, and Ruth once more
accompanied her cousin to Addison College. But she entered the
schoolroom in a different spirit, distrusting self and relying only upon
Divine help.

She had need enough of grace and strength, for the day had not passed
before the girls noticed that Miss Elgin had lost confidence in her and
was inclined to regard her with distrust and suspicion, and they
wondered greatly what had caused the change. Julia of course was
questioned, and without really wishing to do her cousin an injury she
gradually let out the facts concerning the prize. The girls took
different views of the case, according to their liking for Ruth and
their sense of right and wrong. There was a great deal of talk for a few
days, and then the matter was forgotten by all but Miss Elgin, whose
manner was a constant reminder of the affair.

As for Ruth herself, she could _almost_ say, "None of these things move
me," so trivial did they seem; for she was rejoicing in the
consciousness of forgiveness and pardon, her heart was resting after its
wanderings, filled with the "peace which passeth all understanding." The
sheep had come back to the fold, there to abide, to find its shelter
safer and sweeter than ever.

Mrs. Arnold's reply to her daughter was at once tender, sorrowful,
hopeful and motherly. She grieved over what had happened, but rejoiced
that her child had no longer any secret to hide from her; she pointed
out the only path of safety, and commended her to the care and keeping
of the loving Father who had watched over her during all her waywardness
and had brought her back to Himself.

That letter aroused an intense longing for home, for a glimpse of all
the dear faces which she had not seen for seven long months. August
seemed so far away, though each day brought it nearer. Ernest had quite
relapsed into his usual shy, quiet manner, and it was only occasionally
that he was willing to talk with his cousin upon the one subject which
was a bond of union between them.

A change took place in the household early in March, for Gerald left
home. His accident and subsequent explanations opened his father's eyes
to shortcomings which he had for some time suspected, yet it was also
the means of establishing a better relation between them.

The injury which the fire had caused to the books was a most serious
matter, and not even several weeks' work was able to repair the
mischief. The whole matter was necessarily known to all the clerks, and
Mr. Woburn decided that his son must no longer remain in his office,
where he had been able persistently to shirk his duties. Gerald was
thankful to have a chance of starting afresh, away from his old
associates, and gladly fell in with his father's proposal that he should
leave Busyborough, and take a situation which was easily procured for
him in another town.

Julia openly lamented his going, and also cried over it a good deal in
secret, for she was very much attached to her eldest brother, and had
regarded Ruth far more kindly ever since the night when she had been the
means of saving him.

"I used to think that you hated Gerald," she said to her cousin one day,
"and he seemed so kind and polite to you, and so cross to me, that I
grew jealous and couldn't bear you;" and Ruth was somewhat amused to
overhear Julia remark to a friend that she thought she (Ruth) "had
really improved of late."

Study, lessons, classes, essays, and practice were again the important
matters to which attention was directed daily, and there was little time
for recreation or amusement until Easter, when Gerald returned for a few
days, and there was a fortnight's respite from the apparently endless
round of school duties.

A day's excursion of about ten miles into the country, in search of
primroses and other wild flowers, greatly revived Ruth's longing for
home. It seemed so strange to think that the Cressleigh woods were
studded with primroses and anemones, and that she would not gather them
nor see the woods until the flowers had all vanished.

One more term's work, and then--hurrah for home! Such were her thoughts
when she returned to school again after her brief holiday; and as it
would probably be her last term, she determined to work with redoubled
vigour and energy to acquire the knowledge which she would afterwards be
able to impart to her young brothers and sisters.

Miss Elgin's coolness and distrust considerably abated, when she saw
Ruth working diligently and bearing with patience the petty taunts and
slights of her school-fellows. Her influence was greater than it had
been. She no longer found fault with the other girls in the spirit of
the Pharisee, but spoke compassionately, knowing what it was to be
tempted and to fall, and her companions were more inclined to follow the
example of one who was striving to do right than to be influenced by the
precepts of a self-sufficient paragon.

There were still many slips and shortcomings, but she neither concealed
nor made light of them; she simply confessed herself in the wrong and
began again in the strength which comes from above.

So the term passed, and Ruth, who believed that her school-days were
nearly over, began to take a mournful pleasure in thinking, "This is the
last time I shall ever do this or that," and drew many plans for her
future life.

Miss Elgin said that it was a pity for her to leave school when she was
learning so much and making such satisfactory progress; but Ruth
somewhat propitiated her by saying that she would work hard and keep up
her studies at home.

But how little we know what the future will bring!

Just before the holidays, Ruth received a letter which contained the
alarming news that one of the younger children was ill with scarlatina,
and that she would be obliged to postpone her return home for at least a
few weeks. She was anxious to go at once and help her mother in her work
of nursing, but her parents would not allow her to run the risk of
entering the infected house.

It was disappointing, more especially as she had just gained a handsome
prize, which was indeed fairly hers by right of industry and patience.

Yet after all it was no great hardship to go to the sea-side again with
her aunt and cousins to spend the summer holidays. The reports from
Cressleigh were not encouraging. Letter after letter brought the news
that another of the home-birds had been stricken with fever, and for a
week they were all in terrible anxiety about Daisy, the youngest child
and pet of the household. But her life was spared, and she began to
recover slowly.

The summer days passed quickly at the sea-side, and when September came
Ruth cherished a faint hope that she might be allowed to return home. A
letter from her father, however, dispelled any such idea. He said that
although the invalids were going on well there was a great deal of fever
in the neighbourhood, and the doctor did not consider that it would be
safe for her to return for several months. He thought, therefore, that
she could not do better than accept her aunt's kind offer that she
should return with her to Busyborough, and continue to attend Addison
College until Christmas, or even Easter.

Ruth was again disappointed, but she knew that useless murmurs would be
a poor return for her aunt's kindness. So she put a brave face upon the
matter, and wiped away the tears that would come. Like David of old, she
encouraged herself in the Lord, and once more took up her daily duties
in the form of lessons and study.



It was Easter again before Ruth was allowed to return to Cressleigh. How
little she had thought when she left it that she would not see the old
home and its inmates for nearly two years!

But the time had really passed, and the day had come at last when she
must bid farewell to school-days and Busyborough, and take leave of her
aunt, uncle, and cousins. Partings are never pleasant when we are
leaving those we love, and Ruth had grown very fond of them all during
her protracted visit. Julia's animosity had been allayed long since, and
Mrs. Woburn had grown to love her niece as a daughter. She had been for
some time the peace-making element of the household, and a great
favourite with Rupert, who was growing a fine sturdy boy. Ernest was
sorry to lose her, though, as usual, he was not profuse in his
expressions of regret. The shy, awkward boy was developing into a clever
but somewhat reserved young man. Ruth had understood him far better than
any of his own family, and he knew that he should miss her sadly.

The farewells at the house and good-byes at the railway station were
painful, and it was a tearful face of which Mrs. Woburn caught a last
glimpse through the carriage window; but when the train started, Ruth's
mind was so full of joyful anticipations of her welcome home that she
could not feel sad. She wondered, as she leaned back and closed her
eyes, what they would think of her, whether her father would think her
improved or spoilt, and she began to reflect how much she had learnt,
and what experience she had gained of the world and of her own heart
during her absence. It seemed to her that the Ruth Arnold who had left
home nearly two years ago was a very simple, ignorant little girl, whom
she could think of as quite apart from herself.

So busy was she with her thoughts that she scarcely noticed her
fellow-passengers leaving the carriage one by one, until she was aroused
by a cry of "All change here." Was that Crook Junction? Yes, surely.
Then she was only ten miles from home.

She hastened from the carriage to look after her luggage, and was
astonished to hear a familiar voice say, "Ruth." It was her father. How
kind of him to come to meet her! In a few minutes both father and
daughter were seated in another carriage travelling on the loop line to
Cressleigh, and Ruth was talking very fast, trying to tell all the
events of two years in five minutes, and stopping again and again to ask
a question or to recognise some familiar landmark.

Primroses were blooming everywhere, and the country looked gay with

"The children were remarking last night," said her father, "that the
spring has decorated all Cressleigh in honour of your return."

"Here we are at last!" cried Ruth, as the train stopped at the
well-known little station with its little garden-strip of bright flowers
beside the platform. And there was Will, dear old Will, grown such a
handsome fellow, waiting in the station-yard with the brown mare in the
old light cart.

After a hasty greeting came the drive home along the lanes, where the
trees were bursting into leaf, and the hedgerows were gay with starry
blossoms, and the air was delicious after the smoke of a large town.

The children were waiting at the gate, and a little group stood in the
porch to receive her. It was indeed a home-coming, and the poor girl was
almost bewildered by the kissing, the waving, the shouting, the
questions, the entreaties to "look at this," and "come and see that."
Mrs. Arnold was obliged to dismiss the whole party after Ruth had duly
admired the floral decorations in the hall, and had commented upon the
many inches added to the various members of the family during her
absence, and secured her a few minutes' quiet by carrying her off to her
own room.

How tiny and bare it looked after her comfortable, pretty room at
Busyborough, and yet so snug and sweet! How delightfully fresh was the
breeze that blew about the white dimity curtains, and what a wide range
of country she could see instead of a vista of windows, roofs, and
chimney-pots! Yes, indeed, though simple and plain, it was "Home, sweet
home," and there was no other place in the world like it.

Tea followed, a merry, noisy meal, for every one had so much to say, and
although Ruth talked very fast she was not able to reply to half the
questions that were put to her. But the exertion and excitement of the
day had made her feel weary, and she was thankful when the evening drew
to a close, and her father took down the big Bible and read a psalm; and
in the prayer that followed he gave thanks for her safe return, and
prayed that she might be a comfort and blessing to all the household.
When Ruth lay in her little bed that night her last conscious thought
was of the day's changes and the morrow's duties, and she asked that He
who had guided her in the past would be with her in the future, and that
He would help her in her work as the eldest daughter at home, as He had
guided and helped her in her life at Busyborough as The Country Cousin.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Ruth Arnold - or, the Country Cousin" ***

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