She was wont to say that for her part she liked only what was perfectly _true_, by which it is believed she meant prose.
She had no books of her own.

In times of illness she borrowed from Mrs.
Thursby (who had all Miss Young's works, and selections from the publications of the S.P.C.K.).

On Sundays, when she could not work, she read, half aloud, of course, with sighs at intervals, a little manual called "Gold Dust," or a smaller one still called "Pearls of Great Price," which she had once recommended to Charles, whom she knew slightly, and about whom she affected to know a great deal, which nothing (except pressing) would induce her to repeat; which rendered the application of the "Pearls," to be followed by the "Dust," most essential to his future welfare.
On this particular morning in August, Ruth had slipped out as far as the chestnut-tree, the lower part of which was hidden from the rectory windows by a blessed yew hedge.

It was too hot to walk, it was too hot to draw, it was even too hot to read.

It did not seem, however, to be too hot to _ride_, for presently she heard a horse's hoofs clattering across the stones of the stable-yard, and she knew, from the familiarity of the sound at that hour of the day, that Dare had probably ridden over, and, more probably still, would stay to luncheon.
The foreign gentleman, as all the village people called him, had by this time become quite an institution in the neighborhood of Vandon.