Ruth could not wait; she spoke again: "For the love of God, madam, speak! How is he?
Will he live ?" If she did not answer her, she thought the creature was desperate enough to force her way into his room.

So she spoke.
"He has slept well: he is better." "Oh! my God, I thank Thee," murmured Ruth, sinking back against the wall.
It was too much to hear this wretched girl thanking God for her son's life; as if, in fact, she had any lot or part in him, and to dare to speak to the Almighty on her son's behalf! Mrs Bellingham looked at her with cold, contemptuous eyes, whose glances were like ice-bolts, and made Ruth shiver up away from them.
"Young woman, if you have any propriety or decency left, I trust that you will not dare to force yourself into his room." She stood for a moment as if awaiting an answer, and half expecting it to be a defiance.

But she did not understand Ruth.

She did not imagine the faithful trustfulness of her heart.

Ruth believed that if Mr Bellingham was alive and likely to live, all was well.