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Stanford's illness proved more serious than
he had anticipated. During a whole week it
seemed as if the vital forces might be destroyed
by a breath. The most skilful physicians
were almost hourly in attendance; but the soft
hand and tender voice of affection did more for
the invalid than drugs. Ruth hardly allowed
herself the degree of sleep essential to her own
health. She was by his bedside by day and by
night, administering his potions, and suggesting
a thousand little comforts.

The recuperative energies of a sound constitution
at length began to rally, and assert their
dominion over a disease foreign to their nature.
The patient was convalescent. With what tears
of joy did Ruth receive the announcement from
her trusty friend, Doctor Remington!

Stanford could now sit up the greater part of
the day, and walk in his room. Yet still would
Ruth hover around him, watch his restoration,
and protest against any undue exertion on his
part. She ordered her harp to be carried into
his room, and there, through delightful hours,
would she sit, playing enthralling melodies, and
singing sweet, cheerful songs. At times she
would read to him some light, engaging book,

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every page of which seemed strewed with
smiles, and the sparkling fancies of which came
radiant with new charms from her tongue. But
it was in narrating the incidents that had befallen
her and her brothers after Stanford's departure
that she most interested her hearer. As
she recounted her struggles and successes, the
unseen persecutions to which she had been subjected,
her temptations and triumphs, the painter's
breast would heave with emotion, and he
would turn away his eyes from the fair face before
him as from a bright, alluring danger.

The weeks and months which Ruth had devoted
to attendance upon her invalid guest had
flown rapidly by to both. During that time she
had not been wholly free from the calls and
inquisitive supervision of acquaintances and
friends. Her fortune, her beauty and discretion,
her singularly independent position, all
contributed to render her an object of attention
and interest to the fashionable and designing.

Ruth had hitherto avoided gay society, not
that it was altogether distasteful, but because
she apprehended it would interfere with studies
and pursuits which would contribute to her intellectual
advancement. She was also, as yet,
too young, in her own estimation, to find her
proper sphere in a ballroom; and, were there
not this objection, the fact that she had only
Arthur, who was still a boy, for a protector in
her visits, was enough to induce her to refuse
all persuasions to mingle in society. Occasionally
she was entrapped by some adroit mother
into visiting, when she would find, to her

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surprise, a large party assembled, and herself the
principal object of notice. At these times,
every notable young man would of course seek
an introduction, and afterward, presuming upon
the accident, would call upon her at her house.
But John's stereotyped answer was, “Miss Ruth
does not see company;” and the baffled visiters
would leave their cards and depart.

One of the most annoying results of these
accidents soon displayed itself. Ruth could not
enter Broadway without being joined by some
one of these beaux of a moment. In self-defence,
she at length rarely went out on foot; and then
she was relieved of the persecutions of the “dandies,”
except when they chanced to waylay her
as she was stepping from her carriage into
Stewart's to make a purchase.

Spring had come ere the invalid was strong
enough to quit his room. The soft, restorative
airs of May seemed to hasten his convalescence;
and one bright, balmy morning, after returning
from a ride with Ruth, he entered the parlour
with her. The windows were open, and
the odour from the blossoming trees in the yard
was sweet and fragrant.

“You are weary?” said Ruth, as she saw
Stanford sink into a chair, and lean his brow
upon his hand.

“Not weary, but thoughtful,” returned he.

“And is not the thought a glad one?”

“A most unwelcome one—for it was the
thought of leaving you.”

“But why—what necessity—why should you
go?” asked Ruth, hurriedly, while the blood
vanished from her cheeks.

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“Have I not taxed your gratitude sufficiently?”

“Taxed! Gratitude! Words most unkind!
As if gratitude merely—”

“Ah! Ruth, you have now so overweighed
the balance of that debt in your favour, that
you have made me bankrupt.”

“Have you not other motives that influence
you in conceiving the idea of departure?”

“I have.”

“May I not ask what they are?”

“It would be ungenerous in me to tell you.”

“That is impossible. I pray you, inform
me why it is you cherish the wish.”

“Can you not imagine?”

“I cannot.”

“It is, Ruth, for this good and sufficient reason:
a time for parting must come, sooner or
later.”

“And why?”

“Because I have already subjected you to
the remarks and inquiries of gossiping neighbours
by my presence here.”

“What do I care for gossiping neighbours?”

“You are too generous and pure, I well
know, to be affected by the breath of detraction
under such circumstances; but that is no
cause why I should not preserve you from it,
if I can, especially when it is to be done by my
absence.”

“Are these your only inducements for going?”

“There is one more, which I would rather
not mention.”

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“I claim the privilege of asking it.”

“The longer I stay with you, Ruth, the more
appalling to my heart will be the prospect of
separation. I first met you as a child—a sweet
and lovely one, but still a child. The disproportion
of our years forbade the awakening of
any other sentiment in my breast than one of
paternal affection. I loved you as I might love
a daughter—as I now love your little sister.
Two years intervene. I return, and find you a
woman in intellect and soul, with a person
which all the graces seem to have had a share
in moulding. What has been the consequence?
I have felt, and yet feel in your society, as I
never felt before towards any one of your sex.
There is peril in such a feeling, Ruth—a peril
from which I must flee.”

“Then whither thou fleest I will flee, and
where thou lodgest I will lodge!”

Why do you start so, Stanford? The idea
was almost incomprehensible, and the joy too
bewildering. It was not till Ruth exhibited the
treasured pencil-case, and told him what a talisman
it had been to her, that he could absolutely
realize that she was in earnest. With an exclamation
of—

My maiden aunt suggests that I would better
drop the curtain upon the scene that ensued.
As the old lady is a pretty large holder of real
estate in Fourteenth-street, I think, upon the
whole, that it will be for my interest to comply
with her prejudices in this instance.