For five months Ruth had been an inmate at Mrs. Mason's; and such
had been the regular order of the Sundays. While the forewoman
stayed there, it is true, she was ever ready to give Ruth the
little variety of hearing of recreations in which she was no
partaker; and, however tired Jenny might be at night, she had
ever some sympathy to bestow on Ruth for the dull length of day
she had passed. After her departure, the monotonous idleness of
the Sunday seemed worse to bear than the incessant labour of the
work-days; until the time came when it seemed to be a recognised
hope in her mind, that on Sunday afternoons she should see Mr.
Bellingham, and hear a few words from him as from a friend who
took an interest in her thoughts and proceedings during the past
week.

Ruth's mother had been the daughter of a poor curate in Norfolk,
and, early left without parents or home, she was thankful to
marry a respectable farmer a good deal older than herself. After
their marriage, however, everything seemed to go wrong. Mrs.
Hilton fell into a delicate state of health, and was unable to
bestow the ever-watchful attention to domestic affairs so
requisite in a farmer's wife. Her husband had a series of
misfortunes--of a more important kind than the death of a whole
brood of turkeys from getting among the nettles, or the year of
bad cheeses spoilt by a careless dairymaid--which were the
consequences (so the neighbours said) of Mr. Hilton's mistake in
marrying a delicate fine lady. His crops failed; his horses died;
his barn took fire: in short, if he had been in any way a
remarkable character, one might have supposed him to be the
object of an avenging fate, so successive were the evils which