"My brother and I think it would be better to call you--as if in fact you were--a widow. It will save much awkwardness, and it will spare your child much--" Mortification she was going to have added, but that word did not exactly do. But, at the mention of her child, Ruth started and turned ruby-red; as she always did when allusion was made to it. "Oh, yes! certainly. Thank you much for thinking of it. Indeed," said she, very low, as if to herself, "I don't know how to thank you for all you are doing; but I do love you, and will pray for you, if I may." "If you may, Ruth!" repeated Miss Benson, in a tone of surprise. "Yes, if I may. If you will let me pray for you." "Certainly, my dear. My dear Ruth, you don't know how often I sin; I do so wrong, with my few temptations. We are both of us great sinners in the eyes of the Most Holy; let us pray for each other. Don't speak so again, my dear; at least, not to me!" Miss Benson was actually crying. She had always looked upon herself as so inferior to her brother in real goodness; had seen such heights above her, that she was distressed by Ruth's humility. After a short time she resumed the subject. "Then I may get you a black gown?--and we may call you Mrs Hilton?" "No; not Mrs Hilton!" said Ruth, hastily. Miss Benson, who had hitherto kept her eyes averted from Ruth's face from a motive of kindly delicacy, now looked at her with surprise. "Why not?" asked she. "It was my mother's name," said Ruth, in a low voice. "I had better not be called by it." "Then, let us call you by my mother's name," said Miss Benson, tenderly. "She would have-- But I'll talk to you about my mother some other time. Let me call you Mrs Denbigh. It will do very well, too. People will think you are a distant relation." When she told Mr Benson this choice of name, he was rather sorry; it was like his sister's impulsive kindness--impulsive in everything--and he could imagine how Ruth's humility had touched her. He was sorry, but he said nothing. And now the letter was written home, announcing the probable arrival of the brother and sister on a certain day, "with a distant relation, early left a widow," as Miss Benson expressed it. She desired the spare room might be prepared, and made every provision she could think of for Ruth's comfort; for Ruth still remained feeble and weak. When the black gown, at which she had stitched away incessantly, was finished--when nothing remained but to rest for the next day's journey--Ruth could not sit still. She wandered from window to window, learning off each rock and tree by heart. Each had its tale, which it was agony to remember; but which it would have been worse agony to forget. The sound of running waters she heard that quiet evening, was in her ears as she lay on her death-bed; so well had she learnt their tune.