But the time had really passed, and the day had come at last when she must bid farewell to school-days and Busyborough, and take leave of her aunt, uncle, and cousins. Partings are never pleasant when we are leaving those we love, and Ruth had grown very fond of them all during her protracted visit. Julia's animosity had been allayed long since, and Mrs. Woburn had grown to love her niece as a daughter. She had been for some time the peace-making element of the household, and a great favourite with Rupert, who was growing a fine sturdy boy. Ernest was sorry to lose her, though, as usual, he was not profuse in his expressions of regret. The shy, awkward boy was developing into a clever but somewhat reserved young man. Ruth had understood him far better than any of his own family, and he knew that he should miss her sadly. The farewells at the house and good-byes at the railway station were painful, and it was a tearful face of which Mrs. Woburn caught a last glimpse through the carriage window; but when the train started, Ruth's mind was so full of joyful anticipations of her welcome home that she could not feel sad. She wondered, as she leaned back and closed her eyes, what they would think of her, whether her father would think her improved or spoilt, and she began to reflect how much she had learnt, and what experience she had gained of the world and of her own heart during her absence. It seemed to her that the Ruth Arnold who had left home nearly two years ago was a very simple, ignorant little girl, whom she could think of as quite apart from herself. So busy was she with her thoughts that she scarcely noticed her fellow-passengers leaving the carriage one by one, until she was aroused by a cry of "All change here." Was that Crook Junction? Yes, surely. Then she was only ten miles from home. She hastened from the carriage to look after her luggage, and was astonished to hear a familiar voice say, "Ruth." It was her father. How kind of him to come to meet her! In a few minutes both father and daughter were seated in another carriage travelling on the loop line to Cressleigh, and Ruth was talking very fast, trying to tell all the events of two years in five minutes, and stopping again and again to ask a question or to recognise some familiar landmark. Primroses were blooming everywhere, and the country looked gay with them. "The children were remarking last night," said her father, "that the spring has decorated all Cressleigh in honour of your return." "Here we are at last!" cried Ruth, as the train stopped at the well-known little station with its little garden-strip of bright flowers beside the platform. And there was Will, dear old Will, grown such a handsome fellow, waiting in the station-yard with the brown mare in the old light cart.