He offered her his arm and she took it. It was the simple fashion of the time and place. No engaged lovers took an airing of a dozen yards without that outward sign of the tie between them. They walked along in the soft summer evening, pitying Ezra and Rachel in gentle whispers. “I was thinking just now if you and I should part, dear--if their case were ours!” “Oh, Reuben!” And so the grief of the old was a part of the joy of the young, tender-hearted as they were. They played round the mournful old history. “But you would speak, Reuben? You would never let me go without a word?” “And if I didn't speak, dear? If something held me back from speaking?” “But you wouldn't let it hold you back.” “Not now, darling. But I might have done yesterday--before I knew.” Before he knew! He must have always known! But of that she would say nothing. In front of the one village shop in which the pair of window candles still glimmered, they paused, while Reuben searched his pocket-book for the note, and then went on again, in perfumed darkness, until they reached the gate of Rachel's cottage. “Be brave, darling,” Reuben whispered here. “Don't let her repulse you easily.” Ruth entered at the gate, stole on tiptoe along the gravelled path, knocked and listened. The whole front of the little house was in darkness, but by-and-by even Reuben from his post behind the hedge heard the faint noise made by slippered feet in the oil-clothed hall. “Who's there?” said' a voice from within. “Dear aunt,” Ruth answered, “let me in. Do, please, let me in. I want to speak to you.” Reuben, listening, heard the sound of the jarring chain, and the door was opened. He peeped through the interstices of the hedge, and saw Miss Blythe smiling in the light of the candle she carried in her left hand. “Dear niece,” said Rachel, with an unusually fine and finicking accent. “Enter, you are welcome.” Ruth entered, the door was closed, and Reuben sat down on the bank outside to await his sweetheart's return. “I understand,” said Rachel. “You are welcome, my child. I detest rancor in families. I can forgive and forget.” As she spoke thus she led the way into her small sitting-room. To Ruth the poor creature's unconsciousness seemed terrible. She laid her arms about Aunt Rachel's withered figure, and cried a little as she leaned upon her shoulder. “There, there,” said Aunt Rachel, with a note of patronage in her voice, “compose yourself, dear child, compose yourself. I am glad to see you. Take your own time, dear child, your own time.” At this Ruth cried afresh. It was evident that Aunt Rachel supposed her here to perform an office of penitence; and it was all so pitiful to the girl's heart, which, tender enough by nature, had been made soft and more tender still by her recent talk with Reuben in the lane. “Don't talk so. Don't speak so,” she said, brokingly. “Dear aunt, read this, and then you will know why I am here.”