"I am afraid I am very late," said Ruth.
"Oh, never mind," said Mr. Benson gently. "It was our fault for
not telling you our breakfast hour. We always have prayers at
half-past seven; and for Sally's sake, we never vary from that
time; for she can so arrange her work, if she knows the hour of
prayers, as to have her mind calm and untroubled."
"Ahem!" said Miss Benson, rather inclined to "testify" against
the invariable calmness of Sally's mind at any hour of the day;
but her brother went on as if he did not hear her.
"But the breakfast does not signify being delayed a little; and I
am sure you were sadly tired with your long day yesterday."
Sally came slapping in, and put down some withered, tough, dry
toast, with--
"It's not my doing if it is like leather"; but as no one appeared
to hear her, she withdrew to her kitchen, leaving Ruth's cheeks
like crimson at the annoyance she had caused.
All day long, she had that feeling common to those who go to stay
at a fresh house among comparative strangers: a feeling of the
necessity that she should become accustomed to the new atmosphere
in which she was placed, before she could move and act freely; it
was, indeed, a purer ether, a diviner air, which she was
breathing in now, than what she had been accustomed to for long
months. The gentle, blessed mother, who had made her childhood's
home holy ground, was in her very nature so far removed from any
of earth's stains and temptation, that she seemed truly one of
those
"Who ask not if Thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth.
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