It was four o'clock and past, when some one knocked at her door,
and, on entering, gave her a note, which Mrs. Bellingham had
left. That lady had found some difficulty in wording it so as to
satisfy herself, but it was as follows:--
"My son, on recovering from his illness, is, I thank God, happily
conscious of the sinful way in which he has been living with you.
By his earnest desire, and in order to avoid seeing you again, we
are on the point of leaving this place; but, before I go, I wish
to exhort you to repentance, and to remind you that you will not
have your own guilt alone upon your head, but that of any young
man whom you may succeed in entrapping into vice. I shall pray
that you may turn to an honest life, and I strongly recommend
you, if indeed you are not 'dead in trespasses and sins,' to
enter some penitentiary. In accordance with my son's wishes, I
forward you in this envelope a bank-note of fifty pounds.
"MARGARET BELLINGHAM."
Was this the end of all? Had he, indeed, gone? She started up,
and asked this last question of the servant, who, half guessing
at the purport of the note, had lingered about the room, curious
to see the effect produced.
"Iss, indeed, miss; the carriage drove from the door as I came
upstairs. You'll see it now on the Yspytty road, if you'll please
to come to the window of No. 24."
Ruth started up and followed the chambermaid. Ay, there it was,
slowly winding up the steep, white road, on which it seemed to
move at a snail's pace.
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