Ruth stood by with a dish and spoon, while her mother stirred the stew
carefully to be sure that it was not burning on the bottom of the
kettle. Her sister Serena was paring apples and playing with the cat,
and her father and her uncles Caleb and Silas sat before the fire
smoking, sniffing the stew, and watching solemnly. The uncles had just
come in, and proposed staying to dinner.
Mrs. Whitman squinted anxiously at the stew as she stirred it. She
feared that there was not enough for dinner, now there were two more to
eat.
"I'm dreadful afraid there ain't enough of that stew to go round," she
whispered to Ruth in the pantry.
"Oh, I guess it'll do," said Ruth.
"Well, I dun know about it. Your father an' Caleb an' Silas are dreadful
fond of parsnip stew, an' I do hate to have 'em stinted."
"Well, I won't take any," said Ruth. "I don't care much about it."
"Well, I don't want a mouthful," rejoined her mother. "Mebbe we can make
it do. Caleb an' Silas don't have a good hot dinner very often, an' I do
want them to have enough, anyway."
Caleb and Silas Whitman were old bachelors, living by themselves in the
old Whitman homestead about a mile away, and their fare was understood
to be forlorn and desultory. To-day they watched with grave complacency
while their sister-in-law cooked the stew.
Over on the other side of the kitchen the table was set out with the
pewter plates and the blue dishes. The stew was almost done, Mrs.
Whitman was just about to dip out the slices of pork into the dish that
Ruth held, when there was a roll of wheels out in the yard, and a great
shadow passed over the kitchen floor.
"Mother, it's the Wigginses!" said Ruth, in a terrified whisper.
"Good gracious!" sighed her mother; "they've come to dinner."
Everybody stared for a second; then Mrs. Whitman recovered herself.
"Father, you go out an' help them put the horse up. Don't sit there any
longer."
Then she threw open the door, and thrust her large handsome face out
into the rain. "Why, how do you do, Mis' Wiggins?" said she, and she
smiled beamingly.
[Illustration: "A PARSNIP STEW"]
The wagon looked full of faces. On the front seat were a large man and
two little boys; out of the gloom in the rear peered two women and a
little girl. They were Mr. Wiggins, his wife and three children, and his
mother. They were distant relatives of Mrs. Whitman's; they often came
over to spend the day, and always unannounced.
Mr. Whitman came out clumsily and opened the barn doors, and Mr. Wiggins
led the horse into the barn. "I hope you 'ain't got wet," Mrs. Whitman
said. Nothing could have exceeded her cordiality; but all the time she
was thinking of the parsnip stew, and how it surely would not go around
now.
Ruth had not followed the others out to greet the guests. She stayed by
the kettle and stirred the stew, and scowled. "I think it's downright
mean for folks to come in this way, just dinner-time," said she to the
uncles, who had not left their chairs. And they gave short grunts which
expressed their assent, for neither of them liked company.
They watched soberly as Ruth stirred the stew, but they did not dream
that there was not enough to go around.
When her mother and the guests entered, Ruth turned around and bobbed
her head stiffly, and said, "Pretty well, thank you," and then stirred
again. Serena helped the Wigginses take off their things. She untied old
Mrs. Wiggins's pumpkin hood, and got her cap out of her cap basket and
put it on for her. She also took off little Mary Wiggins's coat, and set
her in a little child's arm-chair and gave her a kiss. Little Mary
Wiggins, with her sober, chubby face and her rows of shiny brown curls,
in her best red frock and her scalloped pantalets, was noticed
admiringly by everybody but Ruth.
As soon as she could Ruth cornered her mother in the pantry. "Mother,
what _are_ you going to do?" said she.
"I'm goin' to do jest the best I can," she whispered, severely. "I'm
goin' to tell father an' Caleb an' Silas they mustn't take none of that
stew; they can have some bread an' apple-sauce. I guess they'll git
along."
"Well, I don't care," said Ruth, in a loud voice. "I think it's mean and
a downright imposition on folks, coming in this way, just dinner-time."
"Ruth Whitman, if you care anything about me, you'll keep still. Now you
get the salt-cup an' go out there, an' put some more salt in that stew.
It tasted dreadful flat, I thought. I jest tasted of it when they drove
in. I've got to get out the other knives."
Ruth caught up a cup with a jerk. "Well, how much shall I put in?" she
inquired, sulkily.
"Oh, quite a lot. You can tell. It was dreadful flat. Taste of it."
But Ruth did not taste of it. She scattered the contents of the cup
liberally into the stew, gave it a stir, returned to the pantry, and set
the cup down hard. "Well," said she, "I've put it in, and now I'm
goin'."
"Ruth Whitman, you ain't goin' off to school without any dinner."
"I don't see as there is anything for dinner but bread and apple-sauce,
and I'm sure I don't want any."
"I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself, actin' so."
"I think there are other folks that ought to be ashamed of themselves.
Before I'd go into folk's houses that way--"
"Ruth Whitman, they'll hear you!"
"I don't care if they do. I've got to go, anyway. It's late. I couldn't
stop for dinner now if I wanted to."
She went through the kitchen, where Serena now tended the stew, only
stopping to take her shawl off the peg.
"Why, you going?" Serena called after her.
"I've got to; it's late," replied Ruth, shortly. She faced about for a
second and gave a stiff nod, which seemed directed at the stew-kettle
rather than at the Wigginses. "Good-bye," said she. Then she went out.
It was raining with a hard, steady drizzle. Ruth had no rubbers nor
water-proof--they were not yet invented. She sped along through the rain
and mist. She had to walk half a mile to the little house where she
taught the district school, and before she got there she felt calmer.
"I suppose I was silly to act so mad," she said to herself. "I know it
plagued mother."
It was early in the spring; the trees were turning green in the rain.
Over in the field she could see one peach-tree in blossom, showing pink
through the mist. "I suppose Mr. Wiggins couldn't work out to-day, and
that's how they happened to come. They could have the horse. But they
ought to have come earlier," reflected Ruth. "There are a good many of
'em for Mrs. Wiggins to get ready," mused Ruth. "There's old Mrs.
Wiggins and Johnny and Sammy and Mary and Mr. Wiggins."
By the time Ruth was seated at her table in the school-room, and the
scholars were wriggling and twisting before her on their wooden
benches, she saw the matter quite plainly from the Wiggins side. She
made up her mind that she would behave just as well as she knew how to
the Wigginses when she got home. She planned how she would swing little
Mary out in the barn and play with the boys, and how she would help her
mother get tea.
When school was done and Ruth started for home the rain had stopped and
the sun was shining. The rain-pools in the road glittered, and she
noticed a cherry-tree in blossom. When she reached home Serena met her
at the door.
"Oh, Ruth Whitman!" she cried, "we have had such a time!"