The master called me in to prayers, but I can't say I could put my mind to them, for my heart was beating so. However, it was a comfort to have had an offer of holy matrimony; and though it flustered me, it made me think more of myself. In the night, I began to wonder if I'd not been cruel and hard to him. You see, I were feverish-like; and the old song of Barbary Allen would keep running in my head, and I thought I were Barbary, and he were young Jemmy Gray, and that maybe he'd die for love of me; and Ipictured him to mysel', lying on his death-bed, with his face turned to the wall 'wi' deadly sorrow sighing,' and I could ha' pinched mysel' for having been so like cruel Barbary Allen. And when I got up next day, Ifound it hard to think on the real Jerry Dixon I had seen the night before, apart from the sad and sorrowful Jerry I thought on a-dying, when I were between sleeping and waking. And for many a day I turned sick, when I heard the passing bell, for I thought it were the bell loud-knelling which were to break my heart wi' a sense of what I'd missed in saying 'No' to Jerry, and so Idling him with cruelty. But in less than a three week, I heard parish bells a-ringing merrily for a wedding; and in the course of the morning, some one says to me, 'Hark! how the bells is ringing for Jerry Dixon's wedding!' And, all on a sudden, he changed back again from a heart-broken young fellow, like Jemmy Gray, into a stout, middle-aged man, ruddy-complexioned, with a wart on his left cheek like life!" Sally waited for some exclamation at the conclusion of her tale; but receiving none, she stepped softly to the bedside, and there lay Ruth, peaceful as death, with her baby on her breast. "I thought I'd lost some of my gifts if I could not talk a body to sleep,"said Sally, in a satisfied and self-complacent tone. Youth is strong and powerful, and makes a hard battle against sorrow. So Ruth strove and strengthened, and her baby flourished accordingly; and before the little celandines were out on the hedge-banks, or the white violets had sent forth their fragrance from the border under the south wall of Miss Benson's small garden, Ruth was able to carry her baby into that sheltered place on sunny days. She often wished to thank Mr. Benson and his sister, but she did not know how to tell the deep gratitude she felt, and therefore she was silent.
But they understood her silence well. One day, as she watched her sleeping child, she spoke to Miss Benson, with whom she happened to be alone. "Do you know of any cottage where the people are clean, and where they would not mind taking me in?" asked she. "Taking you in! What do you mean?" said Miss Benson, dropping her knitting, in order to observe Ruth more closely. "I mean," said Ruth, "where I might lodge with my baby--any very poor place would do, only it must be clean, or he might be ill." "And what in the world do you want to go and lodge in a cottage for?" said Miss Benson indignantly. Ruth did not lift up her eyes, but she spoke with a firmness which showed that she had considered the subject. "I think I could make dresses. I know I did not learn as much as I might, but perhaps I might do for servants and people who are not particular." "Servants are as particular as any one," said Miss Benson, glad to lay hold of the first objection that she could. "Well! somebody who would be patient with me," said Ruth. "Nobody is patient over an ill-fitting gown," put in Miss Benson. "There's the stuff spoilt, and what not!" "Perhaps I could find plain work to do," said Ruth, very meekly. "That I can do very well; mamma taught me, and I liked to learn from her. If you would be so good, Miss Benson, you might tell people I could do plain work very neatly, and punctually, and cheaply." "You'd get sixpence a day, perhaps," said Miss Benson "and who would take care of baby, I should like to know? Prettily he'd be neglected, would not he? Why, he'd have the croup and the typhus fever in no time, and be burnt to ashes after." "I have thought of all. Look how he sleeps! Hush, darling;" for just at this point he began to cry, and to show his determination to be awake, as if in contradiction to his mother's words. Ruth took him up, and carried him about the room while she went on speaking. "Yes, just now I know he will not sleep; but very often he will, and in the night he always does." "And so you'd work in the night and kill yourself, and leave your poor baby an orphan. Ruth! I'm ashamed of you. Now, brother" (Mr. Benson had just come in), "is not this too bad of Ruth? here she is planning to go away and leave us, just as we--as I, at least--have grown so fond of baby, and he's beginning to know me." "Where were you thinking of going to, Ruth?" interrupted Mr. Benson, with mild surprise. "Anywhere to be near you and Miss Benson; in any poor cottage where I might lodge very cheaply, and earn my livelihood by taking in plain sewing, and perhaps a little dress******; and where I could come and see you and dear Miss Benson sometimes and bring baby." "If he was not dead before then of some fever, or burn, or scald, poor neglected child, or you had not worked yourself to death with never sleeping"said Miss Benson. Mr. Benson thought a minute or two, and then he spoke to Ruth-- "Whatever you may do when this little fellow is a year old, and able to dispense with some of a mother's care, let me beg you, Ruth, as a favour to me--as a still greater favour to my sister, is it not, Faith?" "Yes; you may put it so if you like." "To stay with us," continued he, "till then. When baby is twelve months old, we'll talk about it again, and very likely before then some opening may be shown us. Never fear leading an idle life, Ruth. We'll treat you as a daughter, and set you all the household tasks; and it is not for your sake that we ask you to stay, but for this little dumb helpless child's:
