"I should feel deeply disappointed if it were not so, Ruth; for I look upon you as one whose mind I have helped to train, whose growing intellect I have tried to form, and bias towards a love of the beautiful and pure and good." Ruth felt more at her ease, and less troubled that the visitor should retain her hand. "I have, I think--nay, I boldly say--led your mind in its studies, and guided your reading," continued Montaigne in the same low, bland voice, every tone of which was musical, deep, and sweet. It had not a harsh, jarring tone, but all was carefully modulated, and lent a charm to what he spoke. Ruth murmured something about feeling very grateful, and wished that he would go. "Tell me, child," he said gently, and now one soft hand glided to Ruth's wrist, and a finger rested upon her pulse, probably that the mental physician might test the regularity of the beats produced by his long-administered moral medicine, "what are you reading now?" "`Froissart's Chronicle,'" replied Ruth. "An excellent work--one which leads the mind to an appreciation of chivalry and the noble deeds of the past. Any work of fiction?" "Ye-es," faltered Ruth; "I have read part of a novel." "That the Misses Dymcox placed in your hands?" "No," faltered Ruth, speaking like a found-out child. "Ought I to tell you, Mr Montaigne?" "Assuredly, my child. What should you keep from me?" "It was a work by George Eliot that Clotilde had obtained from the library." "Unknown to her aunts?" "Yes, Mr Montaigne; but please don't be angry with her." "No, my child, I will not." "Clotilde did not like it, and threw it aside, and I happened to see it; but I have not read much." "They get novels, then?" said Mr Montaigne. "They will be very angry with me for telling you, Mr Montaigne." "I shall not tell them, dear child; perhaps it is natural. What is Clotilde reading now?" "A French story, `Annette'." "In-deed!" said Montaigne softly; and he drew his breath between his teeth. "And have you read it, child?" "No, Mr Montaigne. Miss Philippa expressly forbade our ever reading French novels; she said they were bad." "Well--yes--perhaps, my child; but your pure, sweet young mind would eliminate the evil, and retain only the true and good. I should not debar you from such works. So you young ladies obtain novels from the library?" "I do not," said Ruth simply. "But pray do not ask me such things, Mr Montaigne; it makes me seem to be tale-bearing about my cousins." "Don't be afraid, my child," continued Montaigne; "let there be more confidence between us. Believe me, Ruth, you may trust me always as your best friend, and one to whom your welfare is very, very dear." "Thank you, Mr Montaigne," faltered Ruth; "I will try to think of you as you wish. Will you let me ring for candles now?"