_A SUNSET._
"RUTH," said Heston at breakfast next morning, "when we get back, I
must ask my uncle to let me really begin."
"Begin?"
"To study for what I am going to be. I should like to be a doctor."
Ruth looked earnestly at him, but Heston met her gaze steadily. "I mean
it," he said. "Doctors have such a splendid chance of doing good, and
helping people. I thought so in India and in Germany, but I think so
ten times as much now."
"I think so," said Ruth, heartily, "and I am glad you do."
"I have had a long letter from poor father this morning," continued
Heston, "but nothing but the signature is in his own writing. I fear he
must be very ill. Do you think uncle would mind my wiring the good news
about Norman to him? I should like him to get it before—" he paused.
"I feel sure he would wish it, if we can make it up intelligibly."
"Oh; no fear of that. But I tell you what, Ruth, as father is so ill,
I'll just send the telegram along to uncle for his approval. It will
only delay it for a few hours."
So Heston wrote it out while Ruth stood by making suggestions. And when
it was done, he gave Ruth his father's letter to read while he ran to
catch the early post.
It was a long letter, and evidently had been dictated at various times
when he felt able, for the inks were different, as well as the writing.
Ruth could not help crying over the touching farewell, thinking what
it had cost that suffering father so far away, and then she found a
message to herself.
"Tell your Cousin Ruth," it ran, "that no words of mine can express the
thanks I feel for her love to you all, and for receiving you into her
loving heart." Thus the letter ended.
"Oh, Heston," said Ruth, looking up with tearful eyes when he came in,
"how sad it is!"
"Yes; but how you have comforted him, Ruth! I shall never forget all
you have done for us—never!"
"When you do think of it, Heston, just remember that it has not been my
goodness or love at all, but just God's great love to me!"
"All right," said Heston. "I know you mean it, so I won't say another
word!"
So the last week passed by, Norman gaining strength and liveliness
every day, and then they went home.
As they sat in the train, Judith edged up close to Ruth's side and
whispered, "Cousin Ruth, will you let me be your little sister when we
go home?"
"Willingly, dear," said Ruth, turning round and looking into the sweet
blushing face.
"I should like to be just your little sister! To do what you want, and
be kind to you, and—and a comfort—if I could."
"You can, dear," said Ruth, with watering eyes; and her heart felt
lighter than it had done for ever so long.
That evening, she and her father and Heston settled their future plans.
Dr. Brown was very pleased with Heston's good sense, and readily
promised to forward his wishes to be a doctor.
"I do not know about money," said Heston, colouring deeply, "my father
was too ill and too sorrowful at parting with us to ask him much, but
I understand that he had some to leave us, but whether it would be
enough—"
"There will be enough for your education, my dear," said Dr. Brown,
kindly, "and for the rest, I will take care of them. Do not worry your
head over that."
Heston could not get out much in the way of thanks, but his uncle
understood.
Then they fell to talking of Judith's schooling, and it was arranged
that she should go to the High School where Ruth had been so happy. And
Ruth undertook to take Norman's lessons for the present till he should
be quite robust.
So the next morning, she went down to the Town to call on the Head
Mistress. And when the preliminaries were settled, she turned her steps
to Riverside with a beating heart. She almost wondered whether she
would be welcome; and then chid herself for her want of confidence in
her friend.
But Mary came running to her, and clasped her in her arms.
"Oh, Ruth, how I have missed you!" she exclaimed. "The days have seemed
so cold and long without your dear little presence."
Ruth looked up shyly. "Are you glad to see me, dear Mary?" she asked.
"'Glad!'"
She glanced up into Mary's face with her clear, frank look, and Mary
once more kissed her earnestly "and they made it up."
But Ruth remembered that evening by the window at Sandy Cove, and she
knew that it was God her Saviour who had answered her prayer, subdued
her proud little heart, and had given her back her friend.
During that happy summer, Ruth and Norman spent half their days in
the sunny garden at Riverside, to their great content and Mary's
enjoyment. Dr. Brown's carriage brought them, and fetched them home in
the afternoon, and Ruth sat under the trees teaching Norman, or helping
Mary with her needlework, and the brief misunderstanding they had had
seemed like a dream.
Sometimes, she thought there was a gravity about Ruth's face that
she had never noticed before. But then, she reflected, Ruth had been
through a great deal.
Vincent wrote to his sister frequently, but she seldom spoke to Ruth of
the contents of his letters.
"Thank Arthur for his message," he said, in one of them. "Never was
there a nicer one, and it did me more good than I can say."
One day, in the late autumn, Dr. Brown and Ruth were walking up the
hills together. Ruth had laughingly told him she meant to see the
sunset from a certain spot, and that she was bent on his accompanying
her.
So, with a good-humoured smile, he put on his hat, and they set out
together.
When at length, they had climbed to the top and could look over the
view on either side, Ruth gave a deep sigh. Whether of weariness or
content, her father was uncertain. He looked in her face, and she
turned towards him with a tender smile.
"Are you happy, my dear?" he asked, a little wistfully.
"Oh, yes, dear father," she said, as she clasped his arm closer.
"Vincent Linthorpe wrote to me this morning," he said, still looking
down upon her.
"Did he!" asked Ruth, startled.
"Yes; he spoke most warmly of the time he spent with us in the summer.
Sometimes I have thought that you were going to tell me something, and
then you have drawn back!"
"There is nothing to tell," said Ruth, distressfully, hanging her head.
"Nothing that I can tell exactly. He said half-a-dozen words, and I was
taken by surprise—and that's all! Then he went."
"And you were sorry?" said Dr. Brown, gently.
"I don't know," said Ruth. "Yes, I was sorry that it happened. But it
cannot be helped now, father."
She brushed away two or three tears, and her father stood silent, only
pressing her arm closely.
"He says he will be home in the spring," he remarked at length. "I do
not think the opening has been as profitable as was expected. I think
he will be glad."
No more was said, but Ruth was wonderfully comforted by her father's
tenderness. And as they retraced their steps, her sweet brightness
shone out again.
"Father," she said, as they stood for a moment to watch the glorious
sunset over the mountains, "I think God has brought nothing but
blessing out of these children's coming."
"I am sure of it," he said, heartily. "I thank God every day for it."
"Heston is content," she went on; "Mala is quite changed; Norman is
almost well; Judith is my little sister; and you and I are 'very'
happy, aren't we?"