"By the bye, Ruth, when did you last hear from John?" Ruth turned away to hide the painful flushing of her face.
"I—I—what did you say, ma'am?"
"When did John last write to you?"
A silence ensued, and then Ruth said: "He's written to his parents, ma'am, and not to me."
"Why, how is that, Ruth? Surely you expected to hear from him."
"Not much, ma'am," Ruth forced herself to say.
"But, Ruth, if you are going out to marry him, he ought to write to you, and you ought to expect him to do so." Ruth's apparent apathy gave way as the remembrance of all her happy dreaming swept over her at her mistress's words. She buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly. Mrs. Groombridge laid a kindly hand upon her shoulder. "Sit down, my poor child, and tell me all about your trouble. Something is wrong between you and John, and perhaps I can help to make it right."
"Oh, no, no, ma'am, it's past any one's help," sobbed Ruth, and by degrees her sorrowful story was told. "And, ma'am, I know that his brother will be the ruin of John; he'll go downhill fast, as many a fine young fellow has done."
Mrs. Groombridge looked grave. She was no abstainer, as we know; but she could not help seeing the danger that menaced John, if he could be so easily persuaded to overstep the limits of prudence and sobriety.
"Yes, Ruth, I think there is cause for anxiety about John, but you must not lose heart. I think you acted unwisely in letting him go as you did; at least you might have gone out to him if you knew he was keeping sober and doing well, and the very anticipation of your coming might have given him a motive and impetus that nothing else could. Men dislike to be forced into anything, and have a great objection to be bound by a pledge. You should have been more careful in urging that."