Ruth let her mother finish. It was not quite a revelation to her, this view of Egerton’s continual visits, but it had never come home to her so thoroughly before. Her mother was quite right. She saw it all now. She must act decisively and at once. ‘Mother,’ she said, after a pause, ‘I hope you are not right. Mr. Egerton has been a very kind friend to me, and I like him as a friend and acquaintance very much. I could never look upon him in any other light.’ Ruth gathered up her work and went up to her own room. It was a habit of hers to do so when any little thing put her out. ‘There, John,’ said Mrs. Adrian, as the door closed behind her; ‘you see—I’m sure I’m right. There goes her head, turned by that fellow again. I was afraid what it would be when you let him come dangling about here again.’ ‘How could I refuse him, my dear? He is an old friend of the family. He and Ruth knew each other as children. He has lived down the first rashness of his neglected youth, and is now a gentleman of means, honoured and respected. Surely I could not close my doors against a man who, heavily handicapped as young Marston has been, has yet won his way to a respectable position.’ ‘Ah, well,’ exclaimed Mrs. Adrian, ‘I never did believe in him, and I never shall; and if I thought Ruth was going to fling herself away on him after all, I’d have swept him off the front door-step with a besom before ever he should have darkened these doors again.’ ‘You are prejudiced, Mary. I like Mr. Egerton, and he would give Ruth a splendid establishment; but if she still loves Edward Marston, I should be the last person in the world to attempt to turn her against him.’ While Mr. and Mrs. Adrian were arranging Ruth’s future, the heroine of their conversation sat upstairs in her own little room reading a letter which she had taken from her pocket. It had come some time ago, and she had read it again and again, but had hesitated to answer it. It was dated from Dover, and was in the bold, dashing hand of Edward Marston: ‘Dear Ruth,