She knew that she had strayed out of the right way, and she had not far to seek for the reason. Ever since she came to Busyborough she had been growing careless about the things of eternity, and had ceased to take delight in reading G.o.d's Word and in prayer.

The Bible upon her dressing-table was read daily, it is true, and both morning and evening Ruth knelt for a few moments in prayer. But the sweet meaning was gone from the texts, and the prayer was little better than a form; there was no life in either.

When the young girl went to live at her uncle's house, she found that the lives of those with whom she came into daily contact were not ruled by the same principles and motives as her own. At first she grieved and prayed for her cousins, then she became self-sufficient and wise in her own conceit; and having once allowed the unchristian spirit of pride and dislike for Julia to creep into her heart and take possession, other evils had quickly followed, and had gradually drawn her farther and farther away from her Saviour. She began to see it all that night, and to realize how far off she was; but the knowledge only increased her wretchedness, and made her more miserable. Suddenly a thought struck her. Would it not be wise and right to go to Miss Elgin before school the next morning, to confess that she had yielded to temptation, and to ask that the obnoxious translation might at once be burnt?

But Ruth angrily resisted the notion. Confess that _she_, who bore the character of the most conscientious and trustworthy girl in the school, had stooped to do the very thing which she had so often censured in others? No, never. It would be too degrading and humiliating. Perhaps, after all, Julia's translation was not correct. There might be many faults in her own, and it was very unlikely that she would get a high number of marks for her French paper.

Thus she tried to quiet her conscience, and to banish uncomfortable suggestions. It was the 22nd of December, and the prizes were to be given away on the 23rd. It was not yet known who were to receive them, and, as school work was virtually over, there was a good deal of talk and speculation concerning them. Finishing touches were being given to drawings and maps, desks were being put in order, and books arranged, all in preparation for the festive morrow.

"Miss Arnold, will you go at once to Miss Elgin, in the library?" said one of the teachers in charge of the restless chattering crowd of girls.

Ruth obeyed, and left the room with a heightened colour, and the girls began to wonder why she had been summoned.

"It is about the prize for general improvement, I believe," said Ethel Thompson. "I heard Miss Elgin telling Miss Lee that she thought Ruth deserved it for 'her steady and conscientious work.'"

"Well, there is no doubt that she has worked hard," said one of her companions.

"Come in," said Miss Elgin, in response to Ruth's tap at the library door. "Sit down, dear; I want to ask you a question."

The governess was seated in her study chair, looking over the piles of examination papers heaped upon the table, and entering the numbers of marks in a small red book.

"I want to ask you a question," she repeated. "Did any one help you with your French paper?"

Ruth was taken aback. She did not wish to tell a falsehood, and yet she felt that she could not, _could_ not confess now. Her face grew crimson, and a crowd of thoughts surged through her brain. The form in which the question was put tempted her, and she argued with herself, "No one helped me. How could Julia help me without knowing? I helped myself."

And after a moment's pause, in which she seemed to be listening for her own reply, her lips moved and repeated the expression of her thoughts, "No--no one helped me."

"Excuse my asking you, but your paper was so remarkably good that I could hardly understand your having so few faults, especially in the translation, which was really difficult. I suppose," she added with a smile, "that you have already concluded that your steady application and diligent work will meet with their deserved reward. That will do. You may go now."

She returned to the schoolroom in silence, her mind full of two ideas: the first, that she had obtained the prize; the second, that she had deceived Miss Elgin.

"But I have not told an untruth," she argued with her conscience. "I was asked if any one helped me. Julia did not help me. I only saw and read her paper accidentally."

It was very trying work, arguing with conscience when a number of chattering girls were buzzing about, laughing and asking questions, and Ruth gave several sharp and pettish replies to their inquiries, and was rallied upon her silence and her grave face.

How often it happens that our hardest battles have to be fought in the midst of a crowd, that our moments of sharpest agony and keenest remorse come at a time when we long for solitude, but cannot obtain it, but must go on speaking and acting as if our minds were quite at ease, and full of nothing but the trifling affairs of the moment.

Ruth's conscience was very active, and would keep reminding her that it was not yet too late to go and confess to Miss Elgin. But she put it off. Alas! every moment that had elapsed since she gave up the paper rendered such a task more difficult; the longer she concealed her fault the more serious it became. Looking quite pale and wretched, she returned home that afternoon with a splitting headache. Her aunt was quite troubled about her, though she tried to make light of it, and Mr.

Woburn said cheerily, "You must make haste and get well for to-morrow, Ruth. I suppose you will have a grand prize to bring home after all this term's work."

"Indeed, I would rather not go to-morrow morning," she replied sincerely, as she wished them good-night.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE PRIZE.

But when the morning came she could find no plausible excuse for absenting herself from the prize-giving. Her head was better, though she still looked pale, and Mrs. Woburn, who was to accompany the two girls, would not hear of her remaining at home.

Sick at heart, and anxious for the whole business to be over, Ruth followed her aunt and cousin into the schoolroom, where the desks had been cleared away, and the drawings and work of the pupils were arranged for exhibition.

A number of visitors had already arrived, and were walking round inspecting the drawings, etc., and chatting in little groups, until Mr.

Redcliffe, a gentleman of influence and wide repute, entered the schoolroom and took his seat. He made a little speech upon the value of education, complimented Miss Elgin upon her excellent system of instruction and the proficiency of her pupils, and said a few words of congratulation and encouragement to each of the girls as they came forward to receive their prizes.

Ruth's turn came last, and perhaps on that account his words to her were even kinder and more appreciative. He considered that the prize for general improvement was perhaps better worth having than any other, because, in order to gain it, one must indeed have proved worthy, he said to the blushing girl who stood before him, trembling and full of shame, which, however, appeared to be humility.

The longed-for moment had come at last, and Ruth held in her hand the prize for which she had worked and striven. Yes, she had gained it, but at what a cost!

At the cost of truth and honour, of right principle and self-respect. It was a very poor exchange for them, and the unhappy girl would gladly have given it up, would have borne any disappointment, anything but the humiliation of confession, to have been her old light-hearted innocent self again. But she had done wrong, and although she shrank from pain, she had to bear what, in her state of mind, was indeed a trial--the kind congratulations of her school-fellows, and the praises of her teacher and friends. Even when she reached home the trial was not over, for her uncle and cousins had each some kind word to say.

"And now, my dear, you must write to your father and mother," said Mrs.

Woburn that afternoon. "How proud and delighted they will be to hear of your success!"

_That letter!_ It was the hardest task of all to write and tell her parents what she knew would give them so much pleasure, while she was concealing the fact which would, if known, give them far greater pain.

She spent the afternoon writing and re-writing it, and at last sent off a stiff, constrained little note, informing them that she had been successful, and hoped they were all well.

When Mrs. Arnold received the letter, she read it again and again. She felt convinced, from the absence of any playful remarks, from Ruth's unusual brevity and lack of detail, that something was wrong; but she knew that if her daughter did not write freely she could not _force_ her confidence. So she carried the trouble to her Heavenly Father, and asked Him to lead and guide her absent child.

Christmas was upon them almost before Ruth was aware of it, the gayest and most festive Christmas time that she had ever known, a round of parties, pleasure and merriment. It needs a mind at peace to be able to enter into and enjoy the innocent pleasures of life, and to feel no bitterness when they are past. And Ruth, in spite of the presents she received, the parties to which she was invited, and the pretty dresses she wore, was troubled in mind, and therefore unhappy.

Two things weighed heavily upon her, her own deceit, and her promise to Gerald.

She had been so carefully trained, and so early taught the difference between right and wrong, that she could not look upon her prize without being reminded of the temptation to which she had so suddenly yielded, and the equivocation to which she had resorted in order to hide it.

Then her promise to Gerald troubled her greatly. She felt almost sure, though she could not prove it, that he was not keeping his word. He came down in the morning very late, looking pale and haggard, scarcely tasted his breakfast, and hurried away to the office; and when he returned in the evening either pooh-poohed his mother's anxious inquiries about his health, or answered her curtly and snappishly.

Everything was going wrong, Ruth said to herself continually.

She had done very wrong, had taken a false step, and she felt truly enough that no power on earth could alter that fact. And having once started on a downward path it seemed of no use to try to stop and to do better in future: she must give up all her struggles to do right, and go down, down. It requires a very hardened sinner to forget the past, and begin again as if nothing had happened; or a very humble Christian to start again, after repeated failures, in dependence upon G.o.d. Ruth's self-sufficiency was gone, and she sadly admitted to herself that she was no better than Julia and the other girls. She had given up reading her Bible now, thinking its sweet messages were not for her, a wayward, erring one, and would scarcely dare to pray even for the safety and well-being of the dear ones at home. Too broken-spirited to make resolutions which she felt herself to be too weak to carry out, afraid to open her Bible and read therein her own condemnation, and feeling that her sin had raised a barrier, which she was unable to remove, between herself and G.o.d, the New Year began in sorrow and sadness. "Your sins have separated between you and your G.o.d." These words were continually in her mind, and the remembrance of the peace and joy which she had once felt in thinking of the things belonging to the kingdom only made her more miserable.

CHAPTER XVIII.

SO AS BY FIRE.

"Hark! what was that?" exclaimed Ruth one night, starting up in bed.

She had been half-dozing, half-dreaming, when she was startled by a slight noise downstairs, as if something had fallen.

"I believe it is Gerald. I will go down at once, and tell him that as he has not kept his word I am no longer bound by my promise."

She sprang out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown and shoes, and hurried downstairs, anxious to meet her cousin before he went up to his room, and to get rid of the embargo which rested so heavily upon her.

Down the stairs and into the hall she went without meeting him. The front-door was fastened and bolted securely. Had she been mistaken, or had he already gone to his room?