Ruth sat with the letter in her hand. The time _had_ been when not a doubt would have arisen in her mind as to the sincerity of the writer; but, alas! adversity is so rough a teacher! ever laying the cold finger of caution on the warm heart of trust! Ruth sighed, and tossed the letter on the table, half ashamed of herself for her cowardice, and wishing that she _could_ have faith in the writer. Then she picked up the letter again. She examined the hand-writing; it was bold and manly. She thought it would be treating it too shabbily to throw it aside among the love-sick trash she was in the habit of receiving. She would read it again. The tone was respectful; _that won her_. The "Household Messenger"--"John Walter?"--she certainly had heard those names before. The letter stated that a copy of the paper had been sent her, but she had not yet received it. She recollected now that she had seen the "Household Messenger" among the exchanges at "The Standard" office, and remembered that she always liked its appearance, and admired its editorials; they were fearless and honest, and always on the side of the weak, and on the side of truth. Ruth also had an indistinct remembrance of having heard Mr. Walter spoken of by somebody, at some time, as a most energetic young man, who had wrung success from an unwilling world, and fought his way, single-handed, from obscurity to an honorable position in society, against, what would have been to many, overwhelming odds. "Hence the reason," thought Ruth, "his heart so readily vibrates to the chord of sorrow which I have struck. His experienced heart has detected in my writings the flutterings and desolation of his own." Ruth wanted to believe in Mr. Walter. She glanced at his letter again with increased interest and attention. It seemed so frank and kind; but then it was bold and exacting, too. The writer wished to know how much she received from the "Pilgrim," and "Standard," and what was her real name. Would it be prudent to entrust so much to an entire stranger? and the very first time he asked, too? Even granting he was actuated by the best of motives, would he not think if she told him all, without requiring some further guaranty on his part, that her confidence was too easily won? Would he not think her too indiscreet to be entrusted with his confidence? Would he not be apt to believe that she had not even sufficient discretion on which to base a business arrangement? And then, if his letter _had been_ dictated by idle curiosity only, how unfortunate such an _exposé_ of her affairs might be. No--she--could--not--do--it! But then, if Mr. Walter _were_ honest, if he _really_ felt such a brotherly interest in her, how sweet it would be to have him for a brother; a--_real, warm-hearted, brotherly brother_, such as she had never known. Ruth took up her pen to write to Mr. Walter, but as quickly laid it down. "Oh--I--cannot!" she said; "no, not to a stranger!" Then, again she seized her pen, and with a quick