“Then let us call you by my mother’s name,” said Miss Benson tenderly.  “She would have——­But I’ll talk to you about my mother some other time.  Let me call you Mrs. Denbigh.  It will do very well, too.  People will think you are a distant relation.”

When she told Mr. Benson of this choice of name, he was rather sorry; it was like his sister’s impulsive kindness—­impulsive in everything—­and he could imagine how Ruth’s humility had touched her.  He was sorry, but he said nothing.  And now the letter was written home, announcing the probable arrival of the brother and sister on a certain day, “with a distant relation, early left a widow,” as Miss Benson expressed it.  She desired the spare room might be prepared, and made every provision she could think of for Ruth’s comfort; for Ruth still remained feeble and weak.

When the black gown, at which she had stitched away incessantly, was finished—­when nothing remained, but to rest for the next day’s journey—­Ruth could not sit still.  She wandered from window to window, learning off each rock and tree by heart.  Each had its tale, which it was agony to remember; but which it would have been worse agony to forget.  The sound of running waters she heard that quiet evening was in her ears as she lay on her death-bed; so well had she learnt their tune.

And now all was over.  She had driven in to Llan-dhu, sitting by her lover’s side, living in the bright present, and strangely forgetful of the past or the future; she had dreamed out her dream, and she had awakened from the vision of love.  She walked slowly and sadly down the long hill, her tears fast falling, but as quickly wiped away; while she strove to make steady the low quivering voice which was often called upon to answer some remark of Miss Benson’s.  They had to wait for the coach.  Ruth buried her face in some flowers which Mrs. Hughes had given her on parting; and was startled when the mail drew up with a sudden pull, which almost threw the horses on their haunches.  She was placed inside, and the coach had set off again, before she was fully aware that Mr. and Miss Benson were travelling on the outside; but it was a relief to feel she might now cry without exciting their notice.  The shadow of a heavy thunder-cloud was on the valley, but the little upland village-church (that showed the spot in which so much of her life was passed) stood out clear in the sunshine.  She grudged the tears that blinded her as she gazed.  There was one passenger, who tried after a while to comfort her.

“Don’t cry, miss,” said the kind-hearted woman.  “You’re parting from friends, maybe?  Well, that’s bad enough; but, when you come to my age, you’ll think none of it.  Why, I’ve three sons, and they’re soldiers and sailors, all of them—­here, there, and everywhere.  One is in America, beyond the seas; another is in China, making tea; and another is at Gibraltar, three miles from Spain; and yet, you see, I can laugh and eat and enjoy myself.  I sometimes think I’ll try and fret a bit, just to make myself a better figure:  but, Lord! it’s no use, it’s against my nature; so I laugh and grow fat again.  I’d be quite thankful for a fit of anxiety as would make me feel easy in my clothes, which them manty-makers will make so tight I’m fairly throttled.”