In the Way E-Book

Grace Livingston Hill

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

When wealthy Ruth Benedict moves from New York City to a small village, she soon finds that everyone hates her. Everyone, that is, except one man.

Leseprobe

Grace Livingston Hill

IN THE WAY

Copyright

First published in 1897

Copyright © 2019 Classica Libris

Chapter 1

The kitchen looked unusually dreary that night. It was raining and the two young men who called it home had thrown down their wet coats on chairs to dry before the fire when they came in. Their heavy boots also had been drawn off and looked out of sorts and out of place in a dark pool by the door. The stove needed blacking and the fire was sulky. In the sink were piled the dishes of the entire day, still unwashed. They were not many to be sure, but they added to the general air of desolation. Two blackened pipes on the mantel-piece lay in the one cleared space, the rest of the shelf being occupied by a miscellaneous collection of years. On a hook behind the cupboard door there hung a faded checked gingham apron. The owner thereof had been dead nearly a year, but the apron had never been taken down, either because it had never been noticed, or because the boys had not known what to do with it. It could scarcely have been a pleasing object to them, but they had not been accustomed to much that was pleasant in their lives so far, and hardly thought to try and make it for themselves.

The table was set for the evening meal without table-cloth or much regard to the fitness of things. A baker’s loaf of sour, puffy-looking bread lay on the bare table. A paper containing a slab of cheese was on the other side. A knuckle of ham on a plate and the molasses pitcher completed the array, with some miserably made tea in a tin teapot. It was a very uninviting-looking table, and yet these two preferred it to having their premises invaded by hired help, or to going out to board. They shrank from any more changes. They ate in silence, for they had worked hard all day and were hungry.

At last the elder of the two shoved his chair back from the table and sat thoughtfully gazing across the room.

“Joe, she wants to come here!” he said, still looking thoughtfully about the dismal room.

“Who’re you talking about?” said the younger a little crossly, helping himself to another slice of ham. He had been working all the afternoon in the rain, mending the cow house roof, and the supper tasted good to him. “I wish you’d ever begin at the right end of a thing, Dave,” he went on, “you always plunge into the middle, and it takes half an hour to get at your idea. Where have you been this afternoon, and who are you talking about?”

“Ruth,” said David.

“Ruth?” said Joseph, showing by his tone that he was scarcely enlightened.

“Ruth,” said David again.

“Oh, Ruth!” said Joseph, a kind of dismay and consternation in his voice. He laid down his bread and molasses and sat back in his chair. “What in the name of common sense does she want to come here for?” he asked after a minute.

“Because Aunt Ruth is dead,” answered David, like a lesson he had been saying over to himself to be sure he had it right, “and because she is alone and is our sister and we are her brothers.”

“Well, where’s all the money that was going to be left her? Is it dead too?”

“I don’t know about the money; she doesn’t say as to that.”

“It must be gone or she wouldn’t want to come here. Why doesn’t she do something and stay where she is? After being away from home all her life, she can’t expect to be taken care of now.”

“Joe,” said David rather sharply, bringing the front legs of his chair down with a thud, “she’s our sister. What would father say to hear you speak like that? She doesn’t say anything about money, but I don’t believe she was thinking of that. She seems to want to come to see us. Maybe it’s only a visit she wants, but anyway she is coming. She isn’t even going to wait to see whether we want her. She is going to start tonight and will be here tomorrow morning.”

Joe answered this announcement with a long whistle of astonished disapprobation.

He reached for the letter David handed him and drew the smoky kerosene lamp nearer him to read it. His face grew dark as he read it slowly. It was a letter fair and dainty enough for any brother to be glad to read. Written on heavy, creamy linen paper, in even, graceful lines and curves, a sort of initial of the lovely writer herself.

But Joseph threw it down angrily when he had finished and flung back his chair roughly from the table.

“I guess I’ll clear out of this ranch for a while, and let you enjoy your company to yourself,” he said, rising as if to carry out his threat.

His brother rose also and laying a rough hand kindly on his arm said: “No, you won’t do any such thing, Joe; you’ll stay here and behave yourself, as you promised father you would do, or at any rate as I promised father I would see you did. She is our sister, and you have got to do your duty toward her, whether you like it or not.” Then David took one of the two dirty pipes from the mantel, and lighting it sat down by the stove, with his stockinged feet on the hearth. Joseph followed his example, and for a few minutes there was silence, save for the sound of wind and rain outside.

“Pretty place this is for a girl,” said Joseph, taking the pipe out of his mouth to speak, “she’ll come around messing up everything, and the way she’s been brought up she won’t know how to do a thing.”

David looked about the room again in a troubled way. It was the same room he remembered in his boyhood, aye, even his babyhood, away back where that shadowy memory of his mother moved about; but the old kitchen had a brighter look in those days. What made the difference? Then when mother had gone and Aunt Nancy had come, the room had seemed well enough; father had lived there and seemed contented. After father had died, Aunt Nancy had kept the room about the same, until her death, nine months ago, and nothing had been changed since.

His eyes wandered to the gingham apron behind the door. He slowly brought his feet down from the hearth and going over to the cupboard took the apron down from its hook, and carefully rolling it up put it in the stove. Then he sat down and went on smoking. The action stirred up something in the younger brother’s memory which made him uncomfortable, and in spite of the rain he announced his intention of going down to the store awhile. David said nothing, and Joseph went about some noisy preparations, drawing on his boots with a heavy thud. Then he threw open the door and was greeted by such a gust of wind and torrent of rain that, after scowling out into the darkness for a minute, he slammed the door and came in, pulling off his boots and sitting sulkily down again by the fire.

David roused himself to wash the dishes. So much he could do toward clearing up. “I suppose I shall have to get someone to fix up here,” he said, looking hopelessly around.

“What for?” said the irritable Joe. “If she don’t like it, let her go home. We don’t want her, anyway. There’s other rooms in the house besides this; she can stay in them and keep out of here. As for eating, let her get her meals over to Barnes’. We can’t cook for her, and ’tain’t likely she knows how herself.”

“Look here, Joe,” said the elder brother turning slowly around, the cold greasy dishwater dripping from his great red hands, “you are hard on her. She never knew she wasn’t Aunt Ruth’s own child until after Aunt Ruth died, three weeks ago. It was part of the agreement, you know. Father thought it best for her to have a mother. Aunt Ruth said she wanted her to grow up loving her as her own mother. I never could quite see how it was right and fair not to tell her, but Aunt Ruth made a good deal of it, and father thought it would be just as well, for she would have everything money could buy—you know Uncle Hiram was pretty rich awhile before he died, until he lost a good deal in a failure of some kind. She was a pretty little thing when I saw her.”

Here the dishwasher folded his arms and leaned back against the sink. “You know father sent me there with a message the year before he died, and he told me not to tell anyone who I was, but Aunt Ruth. I wasn’t to let Ruth know I belonged to her, if I should happen to see her, because he said she had never even heard of me. I didn’t kind of like the idea, then, for it seemed as though she would feel ashamed of me if she knew I belonged to her, and I went there feeling all out of patience with a girl that was letting herself be fooled in that way; but you know she was a baby only a few days old when she went there, and how was it her fault?

“Besides, I don’t believe they brought her up near so stuck up as I thought, for while I waited in the great big hallway she came flying down the stairs just like a robin and asked me to please sit down till her mother could come. Then I heard someone call her Ruth, and so I knew who she was, and she answered, yes, she was coming, and went away. But before she went she smiled at me, and said it was a cold morning outside. It seemed sort of funny to think she was my own sister, and if mother hadn’t died, or things hadn’t turned out as they did, she would have been here instead of there, and like as not she’d have been washing these very dishes now, instead of my doing it.”

“Well, you needn’t count on getting her to do them tomorrow night, Dave, I can tell you. City girls never do those things. They’re afraid of their hands. She’ll be a precious nuisance; that’s what I think. How old is she now?”

“’Bout a year and a half younger than you.”

“H’m, they’re always silly at that age. I wouldn’t let her come if I was you, Dave.”

“She’s on her way by this time, so I can’t help it,” said the elder brother imperturbably. He stood still, the dishcloth in his hand, thinking of the bright little figure in blue and white with flying golden hair, that had tripped down the stairs and given him the chair so graciously; and then he looked hopelessly about that room and wished he knew how to make it pleasant for her coming.

The brothers did not sleep well that night. David had an uncomfortable sense of responsibility upon him which he was in nowise able to discharge, much as if an elephant had suddenly found himself inheritor of the proverbial china shop. What he, a quiet, awkward farm boy, was to do with a full-fledged young lady sister, fresh from the city, was more than he could fathom.

He arose early the next morning, as was his custom, and went about his usual duties, or “chores,” as he called them, with the problem still unsolved. Joe, meantime, was angry and dismayed. Though it was by no means a pleasant day for such work, he announced his intention of “gettin’ the timber off that upper wood lot,” which was at some distance from the farm proper and would require all day. Therefore, he took a cold bite in his pocket, shouldered his axe, and was off before David had realized that he would be left alone to receive their guest, when he had entertained some thought of sending his younger brother to the train to meet her.

Her letter had been a brief one and to the point, with an undertone of eager sisterly love and longing for someone who belonged to her, in her loneliness; and this on the second reading reached her elder brother’s heart and made him wish that their father was alive to give her what she wanted. He felt himself utterly unable to do so.

Out of deference to the expected guest he forebore, as his brother had done, to eat his breakfast from dishes, this morning, but took a cold hurried lunch from the pantry shelf. He tried to think as he ate, what his father would have done, but it seemed impossible; and again, as he had done many times before, he decided that it was a bad business to give up one’s children to someone else to bring up, even though that one was the rich wife of your own brother and the mother of the child was dead. Doubtless Ruth had had a much pleasanter life in her luxurious city home than she would have had in the old farmhouse with only her rough father and brothers and old Aunt Nancy for company; but now that those who had guarded her life were taken away, what was to become of her? He gave it up and went out to his work again. There was a certain amount of work about the farm that must be done every day no matter what happened, and he was glad that it was so.

When this had been done he harnessed the old horse to the light spring wagon; smoothed his hair; put on a coat—an unusual addition, except in cold weather, for merely a ride to the village—and drove slowly toward the town and the railway station. It did not occur to him to put on a collar. That was an amount of dressing not indulged in, except on Sundays or extraordinary occasions, by the people with whom he had been accustomed to associate. Half-way to the village, and almost overcome with his sense of the nearness of the station and his expected guest, he halted the old horse suddenly, thinking of his collarless condition, and half turned the wagon around again toward home to make it good; but the color mounted to his cheek as he remembered the crowd that would be at the station—always, to meet every train—and he turned the astonished horse’s nose back again with a jerk, going on more rapidly toward the station.

It was bad enough to have the gaze of those curious eyes, and the ridicule of the lazy tongues leveled upon him while he met his city sister, without having a collar on. A collar was always an embarrassment to him, and for that reason alone he had several times meditated giving up going to church on Sabbath mornings since his father’s death; but the power of habit and his father’s steady example still held him to that when there was no reasonable excuse.

There was no need to fasten Old Gray lest she should be afraid of the cars. She was not afraid of anything in this world now, and so David drew up in front of the long, low station, that had done duty for many a year, and swinging one leg over the wheel to the platform, which was about on a level with the floor of the wagon, he sat surveying the crowd of loafers assembled for their daily excitement of watching the New York train come in.

He had sat in just that way many a time waiting, with no particular end in view except that he happened to be there at that time, and it was interesting to see who would come and who would go. Now it was different, and the commotion in his breast made him wish himself at home. In a few minutes all the eyes would be leveled at him, and the wonder and surprise would be about him and his sister. How strange that word “sister” sounded to him, anyway! He had never really thought of her as belonging to him, and he was conscious of almost wishing at that moment that she did not. Then the distant whistle sounded, and he lounged out of the wagon and stood waiting with the others.

There were not many passengers to alight at the small village. One or two drummers, a merchant returned from a trip to New York, and an old grandmother come to visit a swarm of grandchildren, who were all down to meet her.

After these, preceded by an obsequious porter from the parlor car carrying her immaculate luggage, came a dainty young woman. She had golden hair, which escaped from the imprisoning shell combs into little sunshiny rings about her temples, and her eyes were large and blue, keen and bright, yet tender. David’s eyes were blue too. She was dressed all in brown, very plainly indeed, and yet it seemed extraordinary to Summerton, for they seldom saw a dress or a coat so perfectly made. The oldest grandchild, who was herself approaching young womanhood, wondered what in the world there was about her simple hat that looked “so awfully stylish,” and began studying it, if perchance her last year’s might be made to serve in somewhat similar fashion.

Ruth Benedict walked the entire length of the platform to the dingy station, and had her baggage deposited on the grimy, much-cut benches, paid the porter a shining quarter, and then looked about for her brother. She had not discovered him in her walk down the platform.

He meantime had been sure that this was his sister, but he could not bring himself to speak while that important black porter was in attendance, and the blood mounted in rich waves to his face as she passed him. He turned his eyes the other way lest she should divine who he was and speak. She meanwhile, knew not what manner of person to look for. She knew he was a farmer, but at least she expected a collar, and so she passed him by at the first glance; but something in his face, as he turned during the bustle of the moving train to slip around to where she stood, attracted her attention, and she looked again, a smile lighting up her sweet face, the same smile he remembered of her childhood. That smile enabled him to get over the embarrassing ground between them and reach her side without the painful interval he had expected.

“Are you David?” she asked eagerly before he reached her, and then without waiting to give him time for more than a nod in reply, she put up her pretty lips and threw one arm simply and gracefully about his neck and kissed him.

David felt as though he never had been through such a trying experience in his life and would rather be killed outright than go through it again. He was painfully conscious of the watching eyes. He dared not turn toward them to see what they thought. He had a faint hope that the outgoing train had attracted the attention of most of them, but it was only a hope. Ellen Amelia Haskins, the eldest granddaughter, was taking notes with undivided attention, and she immediately began to give abroad news.

All Summerton knew that away back in the years somewhere there had been a baby sister in the Benedict household, who had been adopted by the father’s rich brother, but they had almost forgotten the story. Now, even as David hurried his sister to the waiting wagon behind the station, it was revived, as Ellen Amelia’s excited voice proclaimed in tones which might have been heard by the occupants of the wagon, had it not been for their absorption in themselves, that she “just betted Dave Ben’dic’s sister had come to make a visit, ’cause she kissed him,” and she added, “and he looked real kind of handsome and majestic bendin’ down to encircle her slight form,” and she giggled softly to herself and remembered the last week’s story in the “Fireside Companion.”

David Benedict did not stay to hear what might be said. He whipped up old Gray as that animal could not remember to have been whipped since the last hired man got married and went away, and the wagon was soon hidden down the road behind the great elm trees at the corner.

Chapter 2

Ruth felt not a little dismayed to find her brother present so unpolished an appearance, but she tried to remember that it was early morning and she knew nothing of farm life. Doubtless he had left his morning work to meet her. Her artist’s eye decided that he was handsome in spite of no collar. The Summerton girls had not known enough to discover this as yet. They looked more upon the outward adornment than upon the true man and could not recognize him except accompanied by well-oiled hair, flashy necktie, and perfumery on his handkerchief, which was to their nostrils a perfect cover for a barnyard odor on the boots or onions on the breath. Besides, David was shy and awkward and never gave them any attention. Joseph, the younger brother, was much more to their liking.

Ruth, sitting beside her silent brother trying to get acquainted and feel her way into his heart, felt her own sink in a lonely, homesick way, and began to long again for the dear ones who were gone, whose constant care had made her life so bright. But she turned her attention to the country about, frankly admiring the river views and the waving fields of grain. It was indeed a lovely drive to the Benedict farmhouse, and Ruth began to dread its ending.

She had been curious to know what her old home was like, but something began to warn her that she would be disappointed. She had read of and seen some beautiful old farmhouses, painted white with green blinds and with lofty columns supporting the front roof. She had imagined that her home would be something like this, with a velvety lawn in front and a dainty white hen here and there walking carefully over it, while at the back there would be a row of shining milk cans, and some peaceful cows musing not far off. That was her idea of farmhouses in general. Now she began to feel that there might be some mistake about their all being like that. Since they had left the station they had passed no such homes.

They presently came in sight of some spacious barns, well coated with red, and a little farther over a large old-fashioned rambling house, of color so dingy that no one might tell what it had been in former days. The front part of the house seemed to be closed, at least the weather-beaten blinds were shut. There was no smoke coming from any chimney except the back one. The front porch had a fallen-down appearance, which gave an expression to the house of a person with the corners of his mouth drooped sadly. This porch was an old-fashioned “stoop,” with a narrow seat on either side too, instead of a wide, airy piazza stretched across the front of the house. The front dooryard was overgrown with tall grass and a few straggling pinks and bachelor’s buttons here and there, while the rose and lilac bushes had tangled their branches across the path to the steps, according to their own sweet will.

Ruth wondered idly how the people could ever reach the front door and felt sad at the air of abandonment and desolation. Then she saw Old Gray turn in at the great unpainted gate of many bars and knew that she was at home. Somehow the tears were very near her eyes, but she bravely pressed them back and tried to be cheery and find something to admire. Strangely enough the old flat stone in front of the worn, much-chipped old green kitchen door with the quaint brass knob, was the first thing that caught her eye.

“What a beautiful flat stone that would have been to play on when I was a little girl,” she said impulsively, feeling that she must say something or break down; and then she realized what a silly remark that was to make. But some One wiser than herself was guiding her words that day. She could not have said anything that would so have warmed David’s heart to his sister as that. He had a feeling that she must of course consider her life and her bringing-up as above that of her brothers, and when she actually spoke as if she would have liked to share their childhood joys in the old plain home, he felt as if he loved her at once. The old flat stone was dear to him for memory’s sake. He could even remember so far back as when he used to sit on it, in his little gingham apron, and his mother would come to the door and give him a large piece of warm gingerbread, standing there a minute to watch his enjoyment as he ate, and saying in soft tones, “Mother’s dear little boy.”

His heart was so soft over Ruth’s words that when he awkwardly helped her out of the wagon he had an impulse to kiss her. He restrained it, of course. All his life training since his mother died had been to restrain any such sentimental impulses as that, but the impulse had made his heart warm, nevertheless. It is a pity he did not give way to that impulse, for Ruth, suddenly ushered into that dreary kitchen, and left alone with the injunction to sit down and rest herself until her brother put out the horse, felt such a rush of desolation come upon her as almost overpowered her.

She sat down in Aunt Nancy’s old rocking chair and buried her face in her hands. What did it all mean? Was there nobody left who cared for her? Did her brother not know what to do with her? Was she an unwelcome guest? That had not occurred to her before. Now it brought a sickening loneliness. She had been rash, after all, as her old lawyer friend had told her, in rushing off to brothers she did not know without any warning to them or any chance to hear from them. Yet she had thought when she prayed to be guided that her direction had been to come here. Could it be that she was mistaken? Perhaps her own desire for the love of someone who belonged to her had made her mistake her desires for God’s guidance! Then came another thought. Perhaps he had wanted her to come here after all, and though there might not be comfort for her, still he might intend that there was something she could do for her brothers. Perhaps they did not know Jesus Christ.

Her heart went out in great longing for them. She wanted to be sure that they were Christians. If they were Christians, then surely there would be a tie between them even stronger than blood. If they were not, then she must stay and try to lead them to Christ. She slipped down on her knees beside the old calico-cushioned rocker and asked her Savior for help and guidance, promising to try to do whatever he wanted her to do here in this home, no matter how hard it might seem, if he would only stay with her and help her. Then she got up, resolutely wiped away the tears, and looked about her. She forced herself to take in every detail of that room. It did not take long, for the kitchen had not much in it. She even walked over and looked at the chromos of bright red and pink roses framed in pine cones, hanging on each side of the little high clock shelf, and took in the fact of the smoky kerosene lamp, realizing that there would be no gas in this house.

Then with a glance out of the window, to make sure David was not at the door, she went over to the pantry with swift determination. David had told her during the drive that Aunt Nancy was dead, and that they were living alone, and she began to wonder how they lived. Did they board, or what? She stood in the door in wonder. The great piece of ham, the half-loaf of bread, the broken cheese, and bag of crackers, told a pitiful tale to her. She applied the tip of her nose to the baker’s bread, and then straightened up suddenly with an involuntary “Ugh!”

Something of her amazement, disgust, and pity, mingled, must have been in her face as she turned at a slight sound behind her and saw her elder brother standing hopelessly in the door. He would not willingly have had her see that pantry. He had fixed it all, out in the barn, while he unharnessed Old Gray. He would go right over to the Barneses and take board for his sister, and then he and Joe could go over and call upon her often and keep her from being lonely. The old house was no place for her, and of course she could not eat there. It was all well enough for him and Joe to get along on anything, but such a dainty bit of flesh and blood as their sister must have better fare. Accordingly he had stopped in the process of unharnessing and come into the house to tell Ruth his plan for her and ask if she would like to ride over there with him at once and have him take her trunk over with them.

Shame filled his face at sight of her discovery of his awkward attempts at housekeeping. He would have resented her going to look in that pantry if she had not been his sister, and even as it was a kind of anger began to rise in his heart, and he would soon have been ready to say with pride, “It’s none of her business how we live. She has no right to poke and pry into things.” But Ruth turned with tears in her eyes and threw her arms about her brother.

“Oh, you poor, dear David!” she exclaimed. “How you have needed me! And you have been trying to keep house for yourselves. I see it all now. I am so glad I have come. I was afraid at first that you did not want me; but you do need me, don’t you? Tell me you do, for I am so hungry to be loved and needed. And I’m glad I came to make you comfortable. You are glad too, aren’t you?” and then she hid her face in his coat and cried.

He stood helpless before her tears. He was really frightened. He had never seen a woman cry before and began to wonder if he ought to go for a doctor; but just when he felt the most helpless, she lifted a face all smiling through her tears and kissed him.

Somehow David felt as though she were more really his sister after that, as if in some subtle way a sympathy had been established between them. He was willing to let her do anything she wanted to now, and he felt as if he would stand up for her against all the world. He made her sit down while he explained his plan for her boarding, but she only laughed a silvery laugh.

“Now, David, my dear brother, did you suppose I came here to be a summer boarder with the Barneses, and have you come and call on me occasionally? No, indeed! The Barneses are well enough in their places, and I shall be glad enough to call on them some time in the future if they don’t see fit to call on me first; but just now I have not time. There’s a great deal to be done in this house before dinner. I came here to find my brothers, and I find they need me a great deal more than I supposed they did. What time do you usually have dinner? and where is my other brother?”

“But what do you mean to do?” he asked helplessly. “You can’t eat here,” and he looked about on the kitchen which seemed, with her bright presence in it, to have a great many more defects for a kitchen than he had ever seen before.

“Why can’t I eat here, I should like to know?” asked the sister brightly, “I guess I can if you can. But I must go to work, or there won’t be anything fit for either of us to eat. That bread in there is very sour. I wonder you haven’t got the dyspepsia. Do you mean to say that you and Joseph have been living in this way on such food as that ever since Aunt Nancy died? You poor dear! Now, let’s get to work. We must have everything nice and cheery before Joseph comes. That fire looks as if it was almost discouraged. Can you make up a good fire for me? I’ll have to learn how to operate that stove; our range was different. But if you’ll fix the fire real rousing and bright, and bring my trunk in and unstrap it, I’ll fix things up all right. Where is my room to be?”

David did not know how to answer all her questions. He felt that someone had come at last who knew what she wanted and his part was only to obey, so in bewilderment he brought her trunk in and deposited it in the room she selected. She had resolutely refrained from looking about her much as she went through a portion of the rest of the house. The kitchen was enough to deal with at first, and too much dreariness would take away her self-control. A room with four walls and a bed was an absolute necessity, and beyond that she would not see anything until she had done all she could in the kitchen. She kept her eyes strictly upon their work, while she rapidly took off her traveling dress and donned a neat gingham, enveloping herself in a large kitchen apron. It was the apron she and her dear adopted mother had made for her to use in cooking school a year before, and the tears came to her eyes as she fastened it, with the memory of all the sweet words and looks sewed into the garment with the dainty stitches.

“Darling, this apron will be with you in many a time of need and stand you in good stead,” her mother had said. “You may find times when you will prize it more than any pretty dress you have. I hope this apron will wear to help you do great good and achieve great things in the culinary line.” These had been that dear mother’s laughing words as she handed her the finished garment. Ruth brushed the tears away and rushed down to the kitchen. There she found a bright fire roaring away in the stove, and David standing by it looking about in a dazed way as if he wondered what was coming next.

“Now the next thing is to find out what there is to work with,” said the new housekeeper eagerly. “David, have you any yeast? I want to set some bread the first thing.”

“Yeast?” said David, “no, we haven’t had any yeast in the house since Aunt Nancy died.”

“And David, where do you keep the baking powder and the salt?” called Ruth from the pantry.

“You will certainly have to go to the grocery before we can have dinner,” she said, emerging from her investigations. “If you will go to market I will write down a list of things we need right away. I’ll try to have some kind of a lunch for you when you come back. I cannot make bread without yeast and I cannot make biscuit without baking powder.”

David brought the potatoes from the cellar and saddling the horse made ready to go on his errand, not much relishing the thought of the sensation he would make, returning to market with a basket so soon after the arrival of his sister. However, he hastened away, and Ruth locked the door securely and went to work. It must be confessed that while she was a brave girl in the city, here in the country she felt the least bit timid at being left alone in this strange house for an hour. Who could tell what awful tramp might come? However, she made up her mind to be so busy she would not think of it, and sending up a prayer for help, she went in search of a knife to peel the potatoes. It was fortunate that there was so much to be done, else the desolation of the whole home, without even an attempt at comfort, might have made her heart fail her, till she must have returned to the lovely home in the city she had left behind for love of two unknown brothers.

The work of setting the table did not progress so rapidly as it might have done under other circumstances. In the first place, the table received a thorough scrubbing, as the two young men had not thought it necessary to wipe off any stray molasses drops for many a day. They had supposed a table was an article of furniture that would clean itself in some way. Then a table-cloth must be searched for. Napkins she did not find but supplied them from a few she had brought in her trunk. She also placed in the center of the table a daintily embroidered bit of linen, and then after surveying the general effect, decided that it did not fit into its present surroundings. There would need to be great changes made in that room before the doily would belong there. In fact, it seemed to be incongruous with the immediate proximity of the cook-stove.

Ruth wondered furtively if there was not a dining room in the house, but forbore to reflect much on the subject, resolving to consider the question at her earliest convenience. Then the dishes came in for investigation. They were thick, and some were cracked and ill-smelling. Up on the top shelf were a few bits of rare old china, perhaps some of her own mother’s wedding gifts. She wiped these off tenderly and washed such of the others as she considered necessary to the meal, not being entirely satisfied with the result of David’s dish-washing. The table at last was set. She stood back and surveyed it a moment. It did not look much like the elegant table to which she was used to sitting down daily, with its fine linen, solid silver, cut glass, and china, and the various forks and spoons considered necessary in polite society for the different courses, but it was neat and inviting looking.

Next she turned her attention to the menu. There was not much variety available until David returned from the store. There were eggs and potatoes, and cheese and crackers, and plenty of milk and cream, and—yes, there was the ham. She despised the very thought of ham herself; but probably David liked it, and she would sacrifice her feelings and cook him a bit, for he must be very hungry after all these months of his own housekeeping. So she toasted some of the cheese, after grating it on the crackers, creamed the potatoes, made a puffy brown omelet, and crisped a bit of the ham by way of decoration. She had everything ready and was just making a cup of most delicious coffee as her brother rode into the yard.

To understand David’s feelings when he opened that kitchen door and saw that table, you must be a man and keep house for yourself for a few months. In spite of the fact that many of the so-considered necessities of a good meal were missing, and that there was no bread, the young man considered it the best meal he had eaten in years. In fact, he was not sure but things tasted better than they ever had in his life, except perhaps that gingerbread his mother used to make.

He told Ruth so, and her eyes grew bright and her heart beat fast with the pleasure. She felt well rewarded for her efforts. She resolved also, if possible, to have some warm gingerbread very soon for David, and meanwhile she started some bread with the yeast which he had brought, which she was sure would be delicious. She was an expert in the art of bread-making.

But the work of regulating that kitchen was by no means more than begun, so though she had been somewhat weary before lunch, she went to work again as soon as David had gone out.

The washing of the dishes proved to be not so rapid as she had intended it to be. She unceremoniously dumped the ill-smelling dish-cloth into the fire and washed all the others out in scalding water before beginning. Then when the dishes stood shining from their bath in boiling water, dry already, because allowed to drain scientifically, she attacked the china closet. It would never do to put the dishes back into such a state of hubbub. She stood a moment reflecting, and then put all the remaining dishes into the hot suds and washed off the shelves. Of course boys could not be expected to know how to clean house, and evidently this one had not been cleaned since Aunt Nancy’s death.

When that cupboard was cleaned and the dishes in shining order, her excitement had reached such a point that she felt she could not rest till the mantel and clock shelf were also cleaned of their rubbish. And it was while she was engaged in cleaning off that same mantel that she came on something which made her heart almost stop in dismay, and for an instant she felt as though she must turn and flee out of that house and away from that place as fast as she could go.

Chapter 3

It was not dirt, nor insects, nor a revolver, nor a serpent, nor a whisky bottle. It was only David’s black, ugly pipe. But it gave her such a throb of disappointment and disgust, that she found herself trembling and weak, and obliged to sit down to regain her strength.

She had been brought up very rigidly with regard to the questions of temperance and tobacco. Her adopted father had never smoked, and her adopted mother had taught her that it was a vile and filthy habit, not only making the persons addicted to it disagreeable nuisances, but making them dishonor and defile their bodies, the temples of the Holy Ghost. Ruth had thought and read a great deal on the subject. She had tried and succeeded in turning every member of her large Sunday-school class of boys against the habit. She had been an enthusiastic member of a club of young Christian women who were banded together pledged not to select their friends from among the young men who smoked, and never to consent to walk the street with a young man who was smoking. It was in her eyes a disgrace. Now to find that one of her own brothers—perhaps both—smoked, was terrible. The blood rolled in waves over her fair neck and cheeks at the disappointment and shame and disgrace of it, and the tears would come in spite of herself. To have her brother wear no collar had been a surprise, but a collar was not a vital matter. This black pipe was.

It required a moment’s prayer before she could calmly return to that mantelpiece. What to do with that pipe was a serious question. She hated to touch it. She had never touched a pipe or cigar in her life. After some consideration she got a newspaper, and by help of a burnt match, shoved the pipe to the paper and laid it on the floor in the corner where no harm could come to it. She would have liked to destroy it, but she knew that would do more harm than good, and besides, it was not hers, and she had no right to do any such thing. However, during the remainder of her work that afternoon, she was reflecting on what course she should pursue with regard to it, and many were the prayers for guidance that she sent up.

As she worked and prayed her heart grew calmer. Perhaps, after all, it might have belonged to some hired man; she would try to think so for the sake of her own peace of mind, at least for this afternoon. Happily it did not occur to her to think that it might have belonged to her own father. There was too much to be done for her to dwell upon details. She had set her heart upon having a cheerful room for her two brothers to come home to that evening.

She viewed the contents of the pantry with utmost scorn, and doubtless gave those two young men more pity than they deserved, for they had fed upon such fare so long that it was not the hardship to them to eat such things that it would have been to their dainty sister.