Great, as may be supposed, was the disturbance
created by this untoward event, and the
proceedings of the district coroner in reference
to it. Opinions were divided as to the actual
cause of death, but not as to the innocence of
Lopré of any homicidal intention (who was
there to say how long and how fiercely the
death-gripe continued?). Violent passion — sudden
effusion of blood upon the already stupified
brain — accidental injury — the clubbed wits of a
sapient twelve, and an admirable conclusion—
"Homicide by misadventure."

If Dorcas Hodgkin had followed the bent of
her secret inclination, she would have
requested her pearl of a lodger, absolved though
he was, to seek another home. However
blameless in intention — and something
whispered that was not too certain — he had slain a
man, and Tabernacle Lodge was not precisely
the city of refuge she could have desired. Often
did she resolve to speak, and as often did the
careworn melancholy face appeal to the good
woman's sympathies and transform her suggestion
that he should change his abiding-place
into the expression of a hope that he was
comfortable where he was. Ah! that she had acted
upon the first wholesome thought!

There was another reason for permitting him
to remain. Since the tragical affair in the wood,
Ruth's interest in their lodger had increased
tenfold. Not for an instant did the little maiden
doubt that, under Providence, she owed her
life to his timely interposition; and how could
she repay him better than by redoubling her
care for his soul? She took him firmly in
hand, and, if patient listening and indulgent
acquiescence be tokens of conversion, Ruth
had every reason to be content with her
disciple. The latter, on his part, seemed to grow
ever more and more attached to his little
friend, and could not bear that she should be
many hours together out of his sight. He
was fond, but never familiar, treating her very
much as a well-grown child might treat a
governess, young in years, but honourable by
virtue of her office. They occasionally strolled
through the woods together, and, at the period
at which we now arrive — that is to say, about
eight months subsequent to the death of the
tinker, Small — this had grown to be almost a
daily custom.

Lopré's health had declined somewhat
rapidly of late. What was worse, the tokens of
some gnawing affliction, bodily or mental, or
both, had returned, and the sobs and half-
stifled ejaculations of the sufferer often broke
upon the midnight silence of Tabernacle
Lodge. The only seasons of relief appeared
to be those in which the two singularly assorted
friends lost themselves in the mazes of the
wood, and the culminating peace was when,
seated under some old tree, Ruth's sweet
voice would dwell upon that eternal rest to
which her innocent heart panted to direct her
hearer's.

A terrible incident suddenly occurred. Little
Ruth, who had gone out, at noon, on one
of her farm-house journeys, was brought home,
in the arms of two labouring men, frightfully
injured, unconscious, and plainly dying. The
men had found her lying, as if asleep, within a
few yards of the very spot at which Ninian
Small had met his violent end. The child lay
in an easy attitude of rest, her dress composed,
not a hair disordered, no soil, no scratch, no
sign of violent usage; but closer examination
revealed the evidence of a heavy blow on the back
of the skull, and a deep puncture in the chest,
which seemed to have bled internally.

The mother's shriek, as she realised the fatal
truth, rang through the house. As it died
away, the ghastly face of Lopré peered forth
from his chamber-door, as in inquiry. Dorcas
saw him, and her frenzy took a different turn.

"Begone, man of evil! — man of blood!" cried
the bewildered woman, in her anguish. "It is
thou — surely thou — that bring'st this trouble
on us. Look, look! Mine innocent!"

Lopré made a step forward.

"I — I? What does she mean? What has
happened? Who is — is dead?"

"Nobody said she was dead but you," said
one of the men, with gruff pity. "But she was
hard struck — and such a little one!"

They told him what had happened.

Lopré's face could not look more corpse-like;
but his quivering lips betrayed his emotion, and
could scarcely enunciate the words:

"Has she spoken?"

Being answered in the negative, he staggered
back into his room, and closed the door.

A silence, almost of the grave, reigned in that
sorrowful house during several hours. Then a
voice, almost awful in the hush, and the abrupt
breaking of it, said, at Lopré's door:

"She has spoken."

"And — then?" gasped a choking voice
within.

"She calls for thee."

Like one walking in a frightful dream, Lopré
came forth and followed Dorcas into Ruth's
little chamber. The dying child lay with her
face towards the door, and the large heavy eyes
grew brighter as he entered. The little hand
made a feeble gesture, in obedience to which,
and a whisper to her mother, the latter
requested the doctor and others who were
present to retire, herself accompanying them
beyond the door.

What precisely passed was never ascertained,
and our narrative can only be framed in har-
mony with the singular surmise hereafter to be
mentioned.

"I rejoice that thou art come. Kneel
beside me, Augustus, for none but God must hear
us now," said Ruth. "I have been wondering
why thou didst raise thy hand against so
weak a thing as I; one who loved thee heartily,
Augustus, and ever strove to minister to thy
welfare, both of body and soul. Was I not
even entreating thee to meekness and to charity,
when thou didst rise and use me thus?"

Lopré only gazed at her, and groaned.

"There is mercy in thee," the child continued,