Ruth Fielding At Sunrise Farm Part 7

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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sured 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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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-fas.h.i.+oned, 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 ch.o.r.es? 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 thras.h.i.+n' 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?"