should have come with your sickly, hypocritical face imposing upon us all.  I trust Benson did not know of it—­for his own sake, I trust not.  Before God, if he got you into my house on false pretences, he shall find his charity at other men’s expense shall cost him dear—­you—­the common talk of Eccleston for your profligacy——­” He was absolutely choked by his boiling indignation.  Ruth stood speechless, motionless.  Her head drooped a little forward; her eyes were more than half veiled by the large quivering lids; her arms hung down straight and heavy.  At last she heaved the weight off her heart enough to say, in a faint, moaning voice, speaking with infinite difficulty—­

“I was so young.”

“The more depraved, the more disgusting you,” Mr. Bradshaw exclaimed, almost glad that the woman, unresisting so long, should now begin to resist.  But, to his surprise (for in his anger he had forgotten her presence), Jemima moved forwards and said, “Father!”

“You hold your tongue, Jemima.  You have grown more and more insolent—­more and more disobedient every day.  I now know who to thank for it.  When such a woman came into my family there is no wonder at any corruption—­any evil—­any defilement——­”

“Father!”

“Not a word!  If, in your disobedience, you choose to stay and hear what no modest young woman would put herself in the way of hearing, you shall be silent when I bid you.  The only good you can gain is in the way of warning.  Look at that woman” (indicating Ruth, who moved her drooping head a little on one side, as if by such motion she could avert the pitiless pointing—­her face growing whiter and whiter still every instant)—­“Look at that woman, I say—­corrupt long before she was your age—­hypocrite for years!  If ever you, or any child of mine, cared for her, shake her off from you, as St. Paul shook off the viper—­even into the fire.”  He stopped for very want of breath.  Jemima, all flushed and panting, went up and stood side by side with wan Ruth.  She took the cold, dead hand which hung next to her in her warm convulsive grasp, and, holding it so tight that it was blue and discoloured for days, she spoke out beyond all power of restraint from her father.

“Father!  I will speak.  I will not keep silence.  I will bear witness to Ruth.  I have hated her—­so keenly, may God forgive me—­but you may know, from that, that my witness is true.  I have hated her, and my hatred was only quenched into contempt—­not contempt now, dear Ruth—­dear Ruth”—­(this was spoken with infinite softness and tenderness, and in spite of her father’s fierce eyes and passionate gesture)—­“I heard what you have learnt now, father, weeks and weeks ago—­a year it may be, all time of late has been so long; and I shuddered up from her and from her sin; and I might have spoken of it, and told it there and then, if I had not been afraid that it was from no good motive I should act in so doing, but to gain a way to the desire of my own jealous heart.  Yes, father, to show you what a witness I am for Ruth, I will own that I was stabbed to the heart with jealousy; some one—­some one cared for Ruth that—­oh father! spare me saying all.”  Her face was double-dyed with crimson blushes, and she paused for one moment—­no more.