The old clock that had hung in the Red Mill kitchen from the time of
Uncle Jabez Potter's grandfather--and that was early time on the Lumano,
indeed!--hesitatingly tolled the hour of four.
Daybreak was just behind the eastern hills. A light mist swathed the
silent current of the river. Here and there, along the water's edge, a
tall tree seemed floating in the air, its bole and roots cut off by the
drifting mist.
"Oh, it is very, very beautiful here!" sighed Ruth Fielding, kneeling at
the open window and looking out upon the awakening world--as she had done
many and many another early morning since first she was given this
little gable-windowed room for her very own.
The sweet, clean, cool air breathed in upon her bare throat and
shoulders, revealed through the lace trimming of her night robe. Ruth
loved linen like other girls, and although Uncle Jabez gave her spending
money with a rather niggardly hand, she and Aunt Alvirah knew how to
make the pennies "go a long way" in purchasing and making her gowns and
undergarments.
There lay over a chair, too, a pretty, light blue, silk trimmed
crepe-cloth kimona, with warm, fur-edged slippers to match, on the
floor. The moment she heard Uncle Jabez rattle the stove-shaker in the
kitchen, Ruth slipped into this robe, and thrust her bare feet into the
slippers. Her braids she drew over her shoulders--one on either side--as
she hurried out of the little chamber and down the back stairs.
She had arrived home from Briarwood the night before. For more than
eight months she had seen neither Uncle Jabez nor Aunt Alvirah; and she
had been so tired and sleepy on her arrival that she had quickly gone to
bed. She felt as though she had scarcely greeted the two old people.
Uncle Jabez was bending over the kitchen stove. He always looked gray of
face, and dusty. The mill-dust seemed ground into both his clothes and
his complexion.
The first the old man knew of her presence, the arms of Ruth were around
his neck.
"Ugh-huh?" questioned the old man, raising up stiffly as the fire began
to chatter, the flames flashing under the lids, and turned to face the
girl who held him so lovingly. "What's wanted, Niece Ruth?" he added,
looking at her grimly under his bristling brows.
Ruth was not afraid of his grimness. She had learned long since that
Uncle Jabez was much softer under the surface than he appeared. He
claimed to be only just to her; but Ruth knew that his "justice" often
leaned toward the side of mercy.
Her mother, Mary Potter, had been the miller's favorite niece; when she
had married Ruth's father, Uncle Jabez had been angry, and for years the
family had been separated. But when Uncle Jabez had taken Ruth in "just
out of charity," old Aunt Alvirah had assured the heartsick girl that
the miller was kinder at heart than he wished people to suppose.
"He don't never let his right hand know what his left hand doeth,"
declared the loyal little old woman who had been so long housekeeper for
the miller. "He saved me from the poorhouse--yes, he did!--jest to git all
the work out o' me he could--to hear him tell it!
"But it ain't so," quoth Aunt Alvirah, shaking her head. "He saw a lone
ol' woman turned out o' what she'd thought would be her home till she
come to death's door. An' so he opened his house and his hand to her.
An' he's opened his house and hand to _you_, my pretty; and who knows?
mebbe 'twill open wide his heart, too."
Ruth had been hoping the old man's heart _was_ open, not only to her,
but to the whole world. She knew that, in secret, Uncle Jabez was
helping to pay Mercy Curtis's tuition at Briarwood. He still loved
money; he always would love it, in all probability. But he had learned
to "loosen up," as Tom Cameron expressed it, in a most astonishing way.
One could not honestly call Uncle Jabez a miser nowadays.
He was miserly in the outward expression of any affection, however. And
that apparent coldness Ruth Fielding longed to break down.
Now the girl, all flushed from her deep sleep, and smiling, lifted her
rosy lips to be kissed. "I didn't scarcely say 'how-do' to you last
night, Uncle," she said. "Do tell me you're glad to see me back."
"Ha! Ye ain't minded to stay long, it seems."
"I won't go to Sunrise Farm if you want me here, Uncle Jabez," declared
Ruth, still clinging to him, and with the same smiling light in her
eyes.
"Ha! ye don't mean that," he grunted.
He knew she did. His wrinkled, hard old face finally began to change.
His eyes tried to escape her gaze.
"I just _love_ you, Uncle," she breathed, softly. "Won't--won't you let
me?"
"There, there, child!" He tried for a moment to break her firm hold;
then he stooped shamefacedly and touched her fresh lips with his own.
Ruth nestled against his big, strong body, and clung a moment longer.
His rough hand smoothed her sleek head almost timidly.
"There, there!" he grumbled. "You're gittin' to be a big gal, I swow!
And what good's so much schoolin' goin' ter do ye? Other gals like you
air helpin' in their mothers' kitchens--or goin' to work in the mills at
Cheslow. Seems like a wicked waste of time and money."
But he did not say it so harshly as had been his wont in the old times.
Ruth smiled up at him again.
"Trust me, Uncle," she said. "The time'll come when I'll prove to you
the worth of it. Give me the education I crave, and I'll support myself
and pay you all back--with interest! You see if I don't."
"Well, well! It's new-fashioned, I s'pose," growled the old man,
starting for the mill. "Gals, as well as boys, is lots more expense now
than they used ter be to raise. The 'three R's' was enough for us when I
was young.
"But I won't stop yer fun. I promised yer Aunt Alviry I wouldn't," he
added, with his hand upon the door-latch. "You kin go to that Sunrise
place for a while, if ye want. Yer Aunt Alviry got a trampin' gal that
came along, ter help her clean house."
"Oh! and isn't the girl here now?" asked Ruth, preparing to run back to
dress.
"Nope. She's gone on. Couldn't keep her no longer. And my! how that
young 'un could eat! Never saw the beat of her," added Uncle Jabez as he
clumped out in his heavy boots.
Ruth heard more about "that trampin' girl" when Aunt Alvirah appeared.
Before that happened, however, the newly returned schoolgirl proved she
had not forgotten how to make a country breakfast.
The sliced corned ham was frying nicely; the potatoes were browning
delightfully in another pan. Fluffy biscuits were ready to take out of
the oven, and the cream was already whipped for the berries and the
coffee.
"Gracious me! child alive!" exclaimed the little old woman, coming
haltingly into the room. "You an' Jabez air in a conspiracy to spile
me--right from the start. Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" and she lowered
herself carefully into a chair.
"I did sartain sure oversleep this day. Ben done the chores? An' ye air
all ready, my pretty? Jest blow the horn, then, and yer uncle will come
in. My! what a smart leetle housekeeper you be, Ruth. School ain't
spiled ye a mite."
"Uncle is still afraid it will," laughed Ruth, kissing the old woman
fondly.
"He only _says_ that," whispered Aunt Alvirah, with twinkling eyes.
"He's as proud of ye as he can stick--I know!"
"It--it would be nice, if he said so once in a while," admitted the girl.
After the hearty breakfast was disposed of and the miller and his hired
man had tramped out again, the old housekeeper and Ruth became more
confidential.
"It sartain sure did please me," said Aunt Alvirah, "when Jabez let me
take in that trampin' gal for a week an' more. He paid her without a
whimper, too. But, she _did_ eat!"
"So he said," chuckled Ruth.
"Yes. More'n a hired hand in thrashin' time. I never seen her beat. But
I reckon the poor little thing was plumb starved. They never feed 'em
ha'f enough in them orphan 'sylums, I don't s'pect."
"From an orphanage?" cried Ruth, with sudden interest born of her
remembrance of the mysterious Sadie Raby.
"So I believe. She'd run away, I s'pect. I hadn't the heart to blame
her. An' she was close-mouthed as a clam," declared Aunt Alvirah.
"How did you come to get her?" queried the interested Ruth.
"She walked right up to the door. She'd been travelin' far--ye could see
that by her shoes, if ye could call 'em shoes. I made her take 'em off
by the fire, an' then I picked 'em up with the tongs--they was just
pulp--and I pitched 'em onto the ash-heap.
"Well, she stayed that night, o' course. It was rainin'. Your Uncle
Jabez wouldn't ha' turned a dog out in sech weather. But he made me put
her to bed on chairs here.
"It was plain she was delighted to have somebody to talk to--and as that
somebody was 'her pretty,' the dear old soul was all the more joyful.
"So, one thing led to another," pursued Aunt Alvirah, "and I got him to
let me keep her to help rid the house up. You know, you wrote me to wait
till you come home for house-cleanin'. But I worked Jabez Potter
_right_; I know how to manage him," said she, nodding and smiling.
"And you didn't know who the girl was?" asked Ruth, still curious.
"Nothing about her at all?"
"Not much. She was short-tongued, I tell ye. But I gathered she had been
an orphan a long time and had lived at an institution."
"Not even her name?" asked Ruth, at last.
"Oh, yes. She told her name--and it was her true one, I reckon," Aunt
Alviry said. "It was Sadie Raby."