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.



CHAPTER XIV.

AN ADVENTURE.

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 festivities.

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 done.

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 cousin—Gerald.

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 to-night?"

"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.



CHAPTER XV.

EXAMINATION.

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 unloosed.

"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 fire.

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



CHAPTER XVI.

A DOWNWARD STEP.

"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 companions.

"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.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE PRIZE.

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 Gerald.

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.



CHAPTER XVIII.

SO AS BY FIRE.

"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.



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 room.

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 death.

"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 later."

"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 conversation.

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 displeasure.

"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 expect."

"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 solemnly.

"'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,

"Ruth."



CHAPTER XIX.

LIVING IT DOWN.

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.



CHAPTER XX.

HOME AGAIN.

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 them.

"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.

THE END