It was delightful to be once more in the open air, and away from the scenes and thoughts which had been pressing on him for the last three days. There was a new beauty in everything from the blue mountains which glimmered in the distant sunlight, down to the flat, rich, peaceful vale, with its calm round shadows, where he sat. The very margin of white pebbles which lay on the banks of the stream had a sort of cleanly beauty about it. He felt calmer and more at ease than he had done for some days; and yet, when he began to think, it was rather a strange story which he had to tell his sister, in order to account for his urgent summons. Here was he, sole friend and guardian of a poor sick girl, whose very name he did not know; about whom all that he did know was, that she had been the mistress of a man who had deserted her, and that he feared--he believed--she had contemplated suicide. The offence, too, was one for which his sister, good and kind as she was, had little compassion. Well, he must appeal to her love for him, which was a very unsatisfactory mode of proceeding, as he would far rather have had her interest in the girl founded on reason, or some less personal basis, than showing it merely because her brother wished it. The coach came slowly rumbling over the stony road. His sister was outside, but got down in a brisk active way, and greeted her brother heartily and affectionately. She was considerably taller than he was, and must have been very handsome; her black hair was parted plainly over her forehead, and her dark expressive eyes and straight nose still retained the beauty of her youth. I do not know whether she was older than her brother; but, probably owing to his infirmity requiring her care, she had something of a mother's manner towards him. "Thurstan, you are looking pale! I do not believe you are well, whatever you may say. Have you had the old pain in your back?" "No--a little--never mind that, dearest Faith. Sit down here, while I send the boy up with your box." And then, with some little desire to show his sister how well he was acquainted with the language, he blundered out his directions in very grammatical Welsh; so grammatical, in fact, and so badly pronounced, that the boy, scratching his head, made answer-- "Dim Saesoneg." So he had to repeat it in English. "Well, now, Thurstan, here I sit as you bid me. But don't try me too long;tell me why you sent for me." Now came the difficulty, and oh! for a seraph's tongue, and a seraph's powers of representation! But there was no seraph at hand, only the soft running waters singing a quiet tune, and predisposing Miss Benson to listen with a soothed spirit to any tale, not immediately involving her brother's welfare, which had been the cause of her seeing that lovely vale. "It is an awkward story to tell, Faith, but there is a young woman lying ill at my lodgings whom I wanted you to nurse." He thought he saw a shadow on his sister's face, and detected a slight change in her voice as she spoke. "Nothing very romantic, I hope, Thurstan. Remember, I cannot stand much romance; I always distrust it." "I don't know what you mean by romance. The story is real enough, and not out of the common way, I'm afraid." He paused; he did not get over the difficulty. "Well, tell it me at once, Thurstan. I am afraid you have let some one, or perhaps only your own imagination, impose upon you; but don't try my patience too much; you know I've no great stock." "Then I'll tell you. The young girl was brought to the inn here by a gentleman, who has left her; she is very ill, and has no one to see after her." Miss Benson had some masculine tricks, and one was whistling a long, low whistle when surprised or displeased. She had often found it a useful vent for feelings, and she whistled now. Her brother would rather she had spoken. "Have you sent for her friends?" she asked, at last. "She has none." Another pause and another whistle, but rather softer and more wavering than the last. "How is she ill?" "Pretty nearly as quiet as if she were dead. She does not speak, or move, or even sigh." "It would be better for her to die at once, I think." "Faith!" That one word put them right. It was spoken in the tone which had authority over her; it was so full of grieved surprise and mournful upbraiding. She was accustomed to exercise a sway over him, owing to her greater decision of character, and, probably, if everything were traced to its cause, to her superior vigour of constitution; but at times she was humbled before his pure, childlike nature, and felt where she was inferior. She was too good and; true to conceal this feeling, or to resent its being forced upon her. After a time she said-- "Thurstan dear, let us go to her." She helped him with tender care, and gave him her arm up the long and tedious hill; but when they approached the village, without speaking a word on the subject, they changed their position, and she leant (apparently) on him. He stretched himself up into as vigorous a gait as he could, when they drew near to the abodes of men. On the way they had spoken but little. He had asked after various members of his congregation, for he was a Dissenting minister in a country town, and she had answered; but they neither of them spoke of Ruth, though their minds were full of her. Mrs. Hughes had tea ready for the traveller on her arrival. Mr. Benson chafed a little internally at the leisurely way in which his sister sipped and sipped, and paused to tell him some trifling particular respecting home affairs, which she had forgotten before. "Mr. Bradshaw has refused to let the children associate with the Dixons any longer, because one evening they played at acting charades." "Indeed! A little more bread and butter, Faith?" "Thank you this Welsh air does make one hungry. Mrs. Bradshaw is paying poor old Maggie's rent, to save her from being sent into the workhouse. "That's right. Won't you have another cup of tea?" "I have had two. However, I think I'll take another." Mr. Benson could not refrain from a little sigh as he poured it out. He thought he had never seen his sister so deliberately hungry and thirsty before. He did not guess that she was feeling the meal rather a respite from a distasteful interview, which she was aware was awaiting her at its conclusion. But all things come to an end, and so did Miss Benson's tea. "Now, will you go and see her?" "Yes." And so they went. Mrs. Hughes had pinned up a piece of green calico, by way of a Venetian blind, to shut out the afternoon sun; and in the light thus shaded lay Ruth--still, and wan, and white. Even with her brother's account of Ruth's state, such death-like quietness startled Miss Benson--startled her into pity for the poor lovely creature who lay thus stricken and felled.
