_BY THE WINDOW._
THE first sight that met Ruth as she looked out of the train at the
Sandy Cove Station was Judith's little figure standing on the platform.
When she met her eyes, however, she saw, to her great relief, that
nothing was wrong. Gladness beamed there instead of the usual grave
patience.
"He has spoken to me!" exclaimed Judith, linking her arm in her
cousin's as they turned out of the station.
"He has?"
"Yes, I could not exactly believe it before," said Judith
apologetically. "It seemed so impossible! But it happened like this,
Cousin Ruth—"
"Do tell me!"
"Mala had one of her dreadful headaches, and she had to go to bed. So I
sent Jane out in the garden to lead Norman about while I did the two or
three little things I had promised you."
"Oh, they could have been left, dear, if you were busy."
"I knew you would wish that—but you see, Jane does sometimes help him,
so I thought it would be all right; and she is so kind. And then,
Cousin Ruth, when I peeped out of the window at them, he appeared to be
prattling away to her quite naturally."
"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Ruth.
"Yes; do you know, after that, I could not do a thing more! I just
cried, I was so thankful! And then I thought I would finish your
dusting quickly, and I could hardly see what I was doing, I was so
glad. But I had to stop crying, or Norman would have guessed. So when
I had done all you asked me, I put on my shady hat and ran down the
garden.
"'I've done, Jane,' I called, 'and if you will get Norman's carriage
out here, we will sit in the shade and I will read to him.'
"Jane went to fetch it with such a joyful look in her face, and we
helped him to get in, and then she wheeled him under the trees, and
I sat down to find the place in your book. I could not make out just
where you had left off, and Norman raised himself on his elbow and said
eagerly, 'It's just there! I know it was the end of a chapter!'
"So I thought of what you said, Cousin Ruth, and I answered quite
quietly, 'Oh, yes, so it is.'
"And after that, he spoke to me when he had anything to say, just as if
he had been talking all these years!"
Ruth pressed the little hand which clung to her arm.
"I was never so happy!" said Judith. "Oh, Cousin Ruth, to think that I
hated to come to England, and was so horrid to you when I first came!"
"All that is past, dear," said Ruth, affectionately; "but here we are
at home, and there is Norman at the window with Jane."
Of course, everyone was surprised to see cook, and delighted too. Jane
took her off to introduce her to the kitchen, while Ruth sought Morris
to hear all that had been done in her absence.
Morris glanced at her dear young lady several times, as if to make sure
that all was right, but Ruth answered the look by a gentle kiss.
"Morris," she said, hesitating, "I have been rather troubled by
something—something Mrs. Arundel told me—but I shall be all right
to-morrow I hope. I am tired now; do not worry over me."
"No dearie," answered her old friend, softly.
So they sat down to a late tea, and everybody talked but Norman. He
seemed content to watch the others, and did not venture on any remarks.
Ruth told them that her father had decided that they should stay
another week. And that now cook had come, she hoped to be able to go
out with them and enjoy herself. And Heston said in that case, he
should enjoy himself twice as much, as leaving her at home to do the
housekeeping had made him quite miserable.
But when Ruth went up to bed, and all the house was quiet, in a very
sober mood, she sat down by her open window and thought over the events
of the last few days, while she listened to the sound of the waves as
they gently broke on the shore.
She rejoiced inexpressibly at Norman's recovery. But somehow, the
uppermost thought to-night was that a check had come to her friendship
with Mary, and that things would never, never be the same again.
"I thought nothing could ever come between us," she sighed, as
she rested her head wearily on the window-sill, "and now quite a
little thing, that was nobody's fault, and that could not have been
anticipated, has divided us! Oh, Mary! Did I make an idol of you?"
"And yet," she went on to herself, "I was very angry with her! I
thought she was hard on me. I could not help what Vincent said—girls
can't always help what a fellow chooses to say—and he gave me no time
to think, or to answer him properly."
Then there was nothing but the sound of the waves, so soothing in their
gentle murmur, but so sad, she thought, to-night.
She felt how lonely she was. For the last few months, there had always
been Mary to whom she could tell everything. Now there was no one. Even
if she and Mary should ever feel the same again, there must always be
this subject on which neither of them could touch.
Poor Ruth shed many bitter tears over the loss of her friend, and then,
chilled and forlorn, she turned from the window, pulled down the blind,
and lighted her candle.
Her eyes fell upon her open Bible, where that morning she had been
preparing her little story for Norman from the fourteenth chapter of
Matthew. The words flashed across her now with a ray of comfort,—
"'Bring them hither to Me!'"
What? Was she to bring her vexation, her burdened, disappointed little
heart, her weariness, her feeling that all was going wrong with her?
Was she to bring these things to Christ to be set straight?
Was the grace to bear, the strength to go on again, the courage which
would rise to the emergency—were these things all included in the five
loaves and the two fishes which looked so insufficient for the feeding
of five thousand men, and yet were to be brought to Him!
With a sudden sense of relief, Ruth came back to her Resting-place.
And the first grateful thought was, that even without Mary, cut off
from all human sympathy, without an outside help of any sort, Jesus
Christ had been sufficient to fill her heart and give her a rejoicing
realisation of His presence.
She had brought the trying circumstances to Him, as He had bidden her
in those gracious words of His, "Bring them hither to Me," and she
found she had enough and to spare!
So she laid her head on her pillow, and, like Hannah of old, "her
countenance was no more sad."
"God can bring it all right, and make Mary understand," was her last
thought before she slept.