The woman ceased speaking. During her whole narrative she had shed no tears, but her voice was low and cold, like the air that comes from a tomb. Her lips never quivered, but they grew white as death. While her mother was talking, Ruth had partly risen and drew the window-curtains softly together, hoping thus to shroud something of the grief which this man had so painfully aroused. Then she sunk back upon her couch, and looked at the stranger reproachfully through her tears. Mr. Ross sat gazing upon the floor, with trouble in his eyes. He felt all the pain he had given, and the thought was full of distress. “Yes,” he said, at last. “I knew Laurence well. He was brave, noble, well educated. How comes it that he took a position which proved so fatal to him and to you?” “He could get nothing better to do,” said Mrs. Laurence, drearily, “and I had no power to help him. But for the children, I might have obtained my old position as a teacher; but they needed all my care. At first, he did not intend to remain in the police, but time reconciled us to it, and he would soon have laid up enough capital for a start in business. It is all gone now; for I would not let the children go out into the world without education, and they loved study.” “I can easily believe that,” said Ross, glancing at Ruth, who still kept her position, with tears trembling on her eyelashes—a delicate, fair girl, with the refinement of a cultivated intellect in every feature. “At least you are blessed in the children my friend loved so well.” “They are good children,” answered the woman, wearily; for the excitement of her narrative had left her cold and weak. Still, the stranger looked as if something was unexplained. He moved across the room, and in a vague way took up the bit of drawing-paper, on which Ruth had sketched her white roses. The delicacy of the touch, and free unfolding of the buds, seemed to arrest his thoughts, and turn them into another channel. His eyes brightened, and bending them upon Ruth, he asked her if she had ever attempted anything in oils. Ruth blushed and casting her eyes down, that he might not remark the longing wish that spoke there, answered, “No; it had been impossible.” He seemed to understand the craving wish that had never yet been expressed, and after a moment’s hesitation, observed, “I sometimes paint a little.” Then, after hesitating a minute, he added, “There must be an upper room in your house which would give sufficient light.” “Yes,” answered Ruth, vaguely comprehending his idea. “But mother was in hopes of letting that, if she could find a nice person.” The flash of a kindly thought came into those dark eyes, and Ross seemed about to speak; but he checked himself, looked at the sketch again, and laid it down. “Is your sister anything of an artist?” he inquired. “Oh, Eva can do almost anything!” said Ruth, and her face brightened out of its mournful look. “She is older than you, I should think.”