It was a great trial to have to write home to dispel her mother's fond hopes and her father's pride in her; to tell them that their Ruth was not the frank, open, truth-loving girl they had always believed her; to prove to them that one of their children could stoop to equivocation and deceit. Yes, it was a hard and bitter task, and she shed a good many tears over it as she wrote, almost oblivious of everything else in the little study, where the traces of the fire still remained. Presently she raised her head, and saw Ernest looking at her--not curiously, but with a kind, compassionate gaze. "Ruth," he said, in a low tone, "I am awfully sorry for you, but I can't understand why you should be so unhappy _now_." "I shall always be wretched," said Ruth bitterly; "all my life, I expect." "I--I thought when first you came here that you were a Christian," said the boy timidly. "I thought so too," sobbed Ruth, "but I suppose I was wrong. Everything goes wrong here, and that happy time is so far away." "But if you have confessed to God, and have His forgiveness, the happiness will come again." "Confess to _Him_? How could I? He is such a long way off now, and there is such a gulf between that I cannot pray to Him." "Oh, Ruth; you are making a great mistake. You know that Jesus died on purpose to put away sin, to break down the wall, to bridge over the gulf. He is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever. It is you that have changed, not Christ. Go to Him at once; it is of no use humbling yourself and confessing to others if you stop away from Him. He only can forgive and send peace." "'Your sins have separated between you and your God,'" said Ruth solemnly. "'The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin,'" replied her cousin. "Ernest, you are a Christian!" said Ruth suddenly. "Yes, I hope so," replied the boy, reddening as his shyness and self-consciousness returned. "Why did you never talk to me before?" asked Ruth; "you might have helped me so much. I thought I was all alone and better than the rest." "It was wrong, I know," he replied, "but I am so foolish I cannot talk about these things; yet I felt so sorry for you just now, for I thought you had forgotten." "Forgotten what?" "How much God loves you. 'Like as a father pitieth his children,' you know, Ruth." She made no reply, but slipped away to her own room to lay her heavy burden at the feet of the Crucified One. I remember hearing some years ago of a little child who, being reproved for some naughty deed, seemed very unhappy, and was seen to steal into a room close by, where he knelt down and lisped in his baby tones, "Dear God, _mis'able_." How much there was in that tiny prayer, that one word! It was indeed the essence of heartfelt prayer, the laying down of the soul's burden.