Ruth sat very quiet. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she seemed lost in thought. At length she rose up. "Mr Benson!" said she, standing before him, and propping herself by the table, as she was trembling sadly from weakness, "I mean to try very, very hard, to do my duty to Leonard--and to God," she added, reverently. "I am only afraid my faith may sometimes fail about Leonard--" "Ask, and it shall be given unto you. That is no vain or untried promise, Ruth!" She sat down again, unable longer to stand. There was another long silence. "I must never go to Mr Bradshaw's again," she said at last, as if thinking aloud. "No, Ruth, you shall not," he answered. "But I shall earn no money!" added she, quickly, for she thought that he did not perceive the difficulty that was troubling her. "You surely know, Ruth, that while Faith and I have a roof to shelter us, or bread to eat, you and Leonard share it with us." "I know--I know your most tender goodness," said she, "but it ought not to be." "It must be at present," he said, in a decided manner. "Perhaps before long you may have some employment; perhaps it may be some time before an opportunity occurs." "Hush," said Ruth; "Leonard is moving about in the parlour. I must go to him." But when she stood up, she turned so dizzy, and tottered so much, that she was glad to sit down again immediately. "You must rest here. I will go to him," said Mr Benson. He left her; and when he was gone, she leaned her head on the back of the chair, and cried quietly and incessantly; but there was a more patient, hopeful, resolved feeling in her heart, which all along, through all the tears she shed, bore her onwards to higher thoughts, until at last she rose to prayers.