A QUESTION which began to press heavily on Ruth’s mind as the days went by was: What should she do when Susan went home?

It began to be apparent that all the details connected with the reconstructed house were completed; and also, that a skillful set of hired helpers were in their places. But it was equally apparent to her heart that she shrank from the thought of seeing Susan pack her trunk and go back to the Erskine homestead; she fitted so perfectly into the family life; she had already acquired such a remarkable degree of influence over the girls. They copied her ways and her words, and it had some time ago become apparent to Ruth that this sister of hers was in every respect worthy of being copied. Even her dress—taking its hints from Flossy Shipley’s sweetly-spoken words, about which Ruth knew nothing—had taken such quietness of tone that, if it was not marked for its beauty, had perhaps higher praise in that it was not noticed at all, but had sunken into the minor place it was expected to fill. Ruth, in thinking the past all over, was amazed at the wholesale way in which she had finally adopted her sister. Just when she began to like her, so well that it was a pleasure to have her company and a trial to think of her absence, she did not know. It seemed to her now as though she had always felt so; and yet she knew that somewhere along the line of her life there must have been a decided change of feeling.

“She is just splendid, anyway!” This was the final verdict. “I don’t care when I began to know it; I know it now. I wish I could have her with me always. If she and father could live out here with us, how nice it would be! Father would like the country; it would rest and strengthen him. But, oh! that woman!” Which two words, spoken with an intensity of emphasis that she allowed only the four walls of her room to hear, always referred to Mrs. Judge Erskine. She was quite as much of a trial as ever. Ruth could not conceive of a possibility of there ever being a time when she should want to see her. So she studied over the problem of how to keep Susan, and, like many another student, found, after a few days, that it was worked out for her, in a way that she would not have chosen.

The news burst like a bomb-shell into their midst, without note or warning. Judge Erskine had lost his fortune! Large though it had been, it slipped out of his grasp almost in an hour.

“The trouble has to do with small-pox and religion!” Judge Burnham said, with something very like a sneer on his handsome face. “I don’t know which development should be blamed the most. During his exile from the office his clerks made some very foolish moves, as regarded investments, etc. And, then, the other disease reached such a form that he was beguiled into putting his name to two or three pieces of paper for others, on the score of friendship—a piece of idiocy that during all his sane years he had warned me, and every other business man who came to him for advice, from being beguiled into; and the result is, financial ruin.”

“There are worse ruins than that!” Ruth said it haughtily; her husband’s criticism of her father jarred.

“Oh, that is true enough. There are dishonorable ruins; this one is the soul of honor, and of philanthropy, for that matter. He has so much to sustain him, but he can’t live on it. And, Ruth, if you had ever known what it was to live on nothing, you could sympathize better with that sort of ruin. The hard part for me to bear would be that it is all so unnecessary; if he had but lived up to the wisdom and business keenness which characterized all the earlier years of his life! He has taken to giving some very strange advice to his clients since he subscribed to his new views—advice which has taken thousands of dollars out of his business. ‘Had to do it,’ he told me; his ‘conscience wouldn’t allow him to do otherwise.’ If that is true, I am really afraid that I couldn’t afford to have a conscience; it is too expensive in article.”

How much of this was sincere, and how much was a sort of sarcastic pleasantry? Ruth wished she knew. It was a new and rather startling thought that possibly the money which sustained her now had to do with the fact that her husband couldn’t afford a sensitive conscience!

She put the thought away, as far from her as possible. At least, she could do nothing with it now; the time for it was past. She tried not to think what ground she had for expecting a high type of conscience from one who lived in cool dishonor of the claims of the Lord Jesus Christ.

The immediate questions were: What would her father do? Also, what was there that she could do for him?

“Oh, he will give everything up,” Judge Burnham said; “every penny; house, and landed property, and household goods, down to his very dog. Even his clothing is in danger. I saw it in his eyes. It is the disease which has pervaded his system. This new conscience of his won’t let him do anything sensible.”

“Judge Burnham,” said Ruth, having endured all that she could—she was not skilled in endurance—“I wish you would remember that you are speaking of my father, and refrain from sneers. If his code of honor is higher than yours, he can not help it, I suppose. At least, you should be able to respect it; or, failing in that, please respect my feelings.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Judge Burnham, quickly startled by the repressed fierceness of the tones.

“I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Ruth, but you do not understand business, and your father is really being very absurd with his strained ideas of equity.”

“I understand conscience, somewhat,” Ruth said, quickly, and she was stung with the thought that perhaps in the days gone by she had stifled hers. Now all this was certainly very sad talk to come between husband and wife not six weeks after their marriage. Ruth felt it and deplored it and wept over it, and wondered how it would be possible to avoid subjects on which they did not think and feel alike.

Meantime she ought to go and see her father. From this she shrank. How could she talk with him from any other standpoint than that in which she had always known him? A man of wealth and power in the business world, she felt that he must be utterly bowed down. He had always, in a lofty, aristocratic way, attached full importance to wealth. How was he going to endure being suddenly thrown to the bottom of the ladder, when he had for so many years rested securely on the top round?

However, it was folly for her to avoid such an evident duty. She chose an hour when Mrs. Erskine would be undoubtedly engaged down-stairs, and slipped away to the train, having said nothing of her intention to her husband when he went to town an hour before, and without having as yet succeeded in arranging a single sentence that she felt would be helpful to her father, she suddenly and silently presented herself before him, in the little room off the library which was sacred to his private use. He sat at the table, writing, his face pale, indeed, but quiet, not exactly cheerful, yet certainly peaceful.

He glanced up as the door opened, and then arose quickly. “Well, daughter,” he said, “you have come to see father in his trouble. That is right. Come in, dear, and have a seat.” And with the old-time courtesy he drew an easy chair for her and waited while she seated herself. Then he sat down again, in his large arm-chair, before her.

“Yes,” he said, “I must begin again. I shall not get to where I was before. On your account I regret it. I wanted to leave you a fortune to do good with, but your husband has enough, and it is all right. The Lord can choose what money he will have spent for him.”

“You certainly need not think of me, father. As you say, Judge Burnham has enough.” And even at this moment there was a pang in Ruth’s heart that she would not have had her father see for worlds, as she wondered how much power she could have over his wealth to turn it into sources for good.

“My chief anxiety is, What are you going to do?”

“Well,” he said, and there was a gleam of a smile on his face, “I am going to climb up again with my wife’s help. It isn’t poverty, you know, thanks to her. Isn’t it marvelous how she can have saved so much out of the paltry yearly sums? Haven’t you heard about it? Why, she actually has at interest about fourteen thousand dollars; invested in my name, too. Isn’t that a reward for the indignities I heaped upon her?” His voice broke, and the tears started in his eyes. “I tell you,” he said, tremulously, “I bore it all better than that. I knew I was not to blame for the financial downfall, but to find that the woman whom I had wronged had been all these years heaping coals of fire on my head just unmanned me,” and he wiped the great tears from his cheeks, while Ruth moved restlessly in her seat. She did not like to hear about his having wronged “that woman,” neither did she like to have her father beholden to her for support.

“It is fortunate that she saved it,” she said, and her voice was most unsympathetic. “But, after all, father, it is your money.”

“No, daughter, no; not a penny of it. Ten times that sum ought to belong to her. Think of trying to make money repair the injury which I was doing her! But it is most comforting to feel that I am to be beholden to her, rather than to any other human being.”

Ruth did not think so.

“I have been wonderfully sustained, Ruth,” her father continued. “I said last night that it was almost worth losing a fortune to see how calmly the Lord Jesus could hold me. I haven’t had a doubt nor an anxiety as to its being the right way from the first hour that I knew of the loss. Of course I don’t see why it should come, and really, I don’t believe I care to know. Why should I, when I can so entirely trust to His wisdom and love? There is another thing, daughter—the sweet came with the bitter, and was so much more important that it over-balanced. Did you know that your mother had come into the sunlight of His love? She told me about it that very evening, and she says she owes her knowledge of the way to me. Isn’t that a wonderful boon for the Lord to bestow on such as I?”

Ruth turned almost away from him, with an unaccountable irritability tugging at her heart. “Your mother!” he had never used those words to her before. They had slipped out now, unconsciously. He had grown used to their sound in speaking to Susan; he did not see how they jarred. It frightened his daughter to realize how little she seemed to care whether a soul had been new-born or not; she could not take in its importance.

“I am sure I am very glad,” she said, but her voice bore not the slightest trace of gladness. Then she went home, feeling that her spirit was not in accord with the tone of that house. “He doesn’t need my comfort,” she told herself, and she said it almost bitterly. It was true enough, he didn’t. Not that he did not appreciate human sympathy and human love, but a greater than human strength had laid hold upon his weakness, and he was upborne. This, too, Ruth recognized, and even while she rejoiced in it, there mingled with the joy a strange pain.

Following the money downfall came plans that were quite in accord with her wishes. They sprang into being apparently through a chance remark. It began with Ruth, in a heavy sigh, as she said, she and Susan being alone:

“I don’t know how to take the next step for those girls. It is absurd to think of sending them to school. At their age, and with their limited knowledge, they would be simply objects of ridicule. We must find a resident governess for them. But where to look for one who will have to teach young ladies what, in these days, quite little children are supposed to know, and yet remember that they are young ladies, and treat them as such, is a puzzle. I am sure I don’t know where to look, nor how to describe what we need, the circumstances are so peculiar.”

Then she waited for Susan to answer; and so accustomed had she grown to being helped by that young lady’s suggestions, that she waited hopefully, though without having the least conception of how a comparative stranger in the city could help in this emergency.

“There are plenty to get,” Susan said. “At least I suppose the world is full of teachers, if you only knew just where to look for them.”

“Oh, teachers. Yes, there are plenty of them, if a teacher was all that was needed. But, you know, Susan, the case is a very unusual one. We really need a woman who knows a good deal about every thing, and who is as wise as a serpent. There is a chance to ruin the girls, and make trouble for Judge Burnham and misery for me, if we do not get just the right sort of person; and I am in doubt as to whether there is any right sort to be had.”

Whereupon Susan laughed, and blushed a little, as she said:

“After such an alarming statement of the requirements, I am not sure that I have the courage to propose a friend of mine. She doesn’t lay claim to any of the gifts which you suggest.”

Ruth looked up, relieved and smiling.

“Do you really know a teacher, Susan, whom you can recommend? I forgot that your acquaintance was extensive among scholars. You need not hesitate to suggest, for I assure you that your recommendation would go further with Judge Burnham and myself than any one we know, for you understand the situation, and your judgment is to be relied upon. Of whom are you thinking, and where is she to be found? I can almost promise her a situation.”

Whereupon Susan laughed outright.

“Really,” she said, “you make it very embarrassing work for me. I not only have to recommend myself, but actually force myself upon your observation. But, since I intend to teach in the future, as I have done in the past, why not try me for awhile, since I am here? I think I would do until the girls were ready for somebody who could do better.”

If she had been watching her sister’s face she would have seen the puzzled look change to one of radiant delight. Then that sister did what, to one of her undemonstrative nature, was a strange thing to do—she crossed to Susan’s side, and bending down, kissed her eagerly on either cheek.

“I believe I am an idiot!” she said. “Though I used to think I was capable of planning as well as most persons, but I never once thought of it! And I knew you meant to teach, too. It is the very thing. Nothing could be more delightful! Judge Burnham will think so, too. Oh, Susan, you are one of my greatest comforts!”