CHAPTER XIII.

"A summer house, hey!" said the old lady, as with stealthy, cat-like steps, she crossed a small piece of woods, between her house and Ruth's; "a summer house! that's the way the money goes, is it? What have we here? a book;" (picking up a volume which lay half hidden in the moss at her feet;) "poetry, I declare! the most frivolous of all reading; all pencil marked;--and here's something in Ruth's own hand-writing--_that's_ poetry, too: worse and worse."

"Well, we'll see how the _kitchen_ of this poetess looks. I will go into the house the back way, and take them by surprise; that's the way to find people out. None of your company faces for me." And the old lady peered curiously through her spectacles, on either side, as she pa.s.sed along towards the kitchen door, and exclaimed, as her eye fell on the shining row, "_six_ milkpans!--wonder if they _buy_ their milk, or keep a cow. If they buy it, it must cost them something; if they keep a cow, I've no question the milk is half wasted."

The old lady pa.s.sed her skinny forefinger across one of the pans, examining her finger very minutely after the operation; and then applied the tip of her nose to the interior of it. There was no fault to be found with that milkpan, if it was Ruth's; so, scrutinizing two or three dish towels, which were hanging on a line to dry, she stepped cautiously up to the kitchen door. A tidy, respectable-looking black woman met her on the threshold; her woolly locks bound with a gay-striped bandanna, and her ebony face shining with irresistible good humor.

"Is Ruth in?" said the old lady.

"Who, Missis?" said Dinah.

"Ruth."

"Missis Hall lives _here_," answered Dinah, with a puzzled look.

"Exactly," said the old lady; "she is my son's wife."

"Oh! I beg your pardon, Missis," said Dinah, curtseying respectfully.

"I never heard her name called Ruth afore: ma.s.sa calls her 'bird,' and 'sunbeam.'"

The old lady frowned.

"Is she at home?" she repeated, with stately dignity.

"No," said Dinah, "Missis is gone rambling off in the woods with little Daisy. She's powerful fond of flowers, and things. She climbs fences like a squir'l! it makes this chil' laf' to see the ol' farmers stare at her."

"You must have a great deal to do, here;" said the old lady, frowning; "Ruth isn't much of a hand at house-work."

"Plenty to do, Missis, and willin' hands to do it. Dinah don't care how hard she works, if she don't work to the tune of a lash; and Missis Hall goes singing about the house so that it makes time fly."

"She don't ever _help_ you any, does she?" said the persevering old lady.

"Lor' bless you! yes, Missis. She comes right in and makes a pie for Ma.s.sa Harry, or cooks a steak jess' as easy as she pulls off a flower; and when Dinah's cooking anything new, she asks more questions how it's done than this chil' kin answer."

"You have a great deal of company, I suppose; that must make you extra trouble, I should think; people riding out from the city to supper, when you are all through and cleared away: don't it tire you?"

"No; Missis Hall takes it easy. She laf's merry, and says to the company, 'you get _tea_ enough in the city, so I shan't give you any; we had tea long ago; but here's some fresh milk, and some raspberries and cake; and if you can't eat _that_, you ought to go hungry.'"

"She irons Harry's shirts, I suppose?" said the old lady.

"She? s'pose dis chil' let her? when she's so careful, too, of ol'

Dinah's bones?"

"Well," said the old lady, foiled at all points, "I'll walk over the house a bit, I guess; I won't trouble you to wait on me, Dinah;" and the old lady started on her exploring tour.

CHAPTER XIV.

"This is the parlor, hey?" soliloquized old Mrs. Hall, as she seated herself on the sofa. "A few dollars laid out here, I guess."

Not so fast, my dear madam. Examine closely. Those long, white curtains, looped up so prettily from the open windows, are plain, cheap muslin; but no artist could have disposed their folds more gracefully. The chairs and sofas, also, Ruth covered with her own nimble fingers: the room has the fragrance of a green-house, to be sure; but if you examine the flowers, which are scattered so profusedly round, you will find they are _wild_ flowers, which Ruth, basket in hand, climbs many a stone fence every morning to gather; and not a country boy in the village knows their hiding-places as well as she. See how skilfully they are arranged! with what an eye to the blending of colors! How dainty is that little tulip-shaped vase, with those half opened wild-rose buds!

see that little gilt saucer, containing only a few tiny green leaves; yet, mark their exquisite shape and finish. And there are some wood anemonies; some white, with a faint blush of pink at the petals; and others blue as little Daisy's eyes; and see that velvet moss, with its gold-star blossoms!

"Must take a deal of time to gather and fix 'em," muttered the old lady.

Yes, my dear madam; but, better pay the shoe-maker's than the doctor's bill; better seek health in hunting live flowers, than ruin it by manufacturing those German worsted abortions.

You should see your son Harry, as he ushers a visitor in through the low door-way, and stands back to mark the surprised delight with which he gazes upon Ruth's little fairy room. You should see how Harry's eyes glisten, as they pa.s.s from one flower vase to another, saying, "Who but Ruth would ever have spied out _that_ tiny little blossom?"

And little Daisy has caught the flower mania, too; and every day she must have _her_ vase in the collection; now withdrawing a rose and replacing it with a violet, and then stepping a pace or two back and looking at it with her little head on one side, as knowingly as an artist looks at the finishing touches to a favorite picture.

But, my dear old lady, we beg pardon; we are keeping you too long from that china closet, which you are so anxious to inspect; hoping to find a flaw, either in crockery or cake. Not a bit! You may draw those prying fingers across the shelves till you are tired, and not a particle of dust will adhere to them. Neither cups, saucers, tumblers, nor plates, stick to your hands; the sugar-bowl is covered; the cake, in that tin pail, is fresh and light; the preserves, in those gla.s.s jars, tied down with brandy papers, are clear as amber; and the silver might serve for a looking-gla.s.s, in which you could read your own vexation.

Never mind! A great many people keep the _first_ floor spick and span; mayhap you'll find something wrong _up_ stairs. Walk in; 'tis the "best chamber." A gilt arrow is fastened to the wall, and pretty white lace curtains are thrown (tent fashion) over it; there is a snow-white quilt and a pair of plump, tempting pillows; the furniture and carpet are of a light cream color; and there is a vase of honeysuckle on the little light-stand. Nothing could be more faultless, you see.

Now, step into the nursery; the floor is strewed with play-things; thank G.o.d, there's a child in the house! There is a broken doll; a torn picture-book; a little wreath of oak leaves; a dandelion chain; some willow ta.s.sels; a few acorns; a little red shoe, full of parti-colored pebbles; the wing of a little blue-bird; two little, speckled eggs, on a tuft of moss; and a little orphan chicken, nestling in a basket of cotton wool, in the corner. Then, there is a work-basket of Ruth's with a little dress of Daisy's, partly finished, and a d.i.c.ky of Harry's, with the needle still sticking in it, which the little gypsey wife intends finishing when she comes back from her wood ramble.

The old lady begins to think she must give it up; when, luckily, her eye falls on a crouching "Venus," in the corner. Saints and angels! why, she has never been to the dress-makers! There's a text, now! What a pity there is no appreciative audience to see the glow of indignation with which those half averted eyes regard the undraped G.o.ddess!

"Oh, Harry! is this the end of all my teachings? Well, it is all _Ruth's_ doings--_all_ Ruth's doings. Harry is to be pitied, not blamed;" and the old lady takes up, at length, her _triumphant_ march for home.

CHAPTER XV.

"Hallo! what are you doing there?" exclaimed the doctor, looking over the fence at a laborer, at work in one of Harry's fields.

"Ploughing this bit o' ground, sir. Mr. Hall told me to be sure and get it finished before he came home from the city this afthernoon."

"Nonsense!" replied the doctor, "I was born sometime before my son Harry; put up your plough, and lay that bit of stone wall yonder; that needs to be done first."

"I'm thinking Masther Hall won't be afther liking it if I do, sir," said Pat; "I had my orders for the day's work before masther went to the city, sir, this morning."

"Pooh, pooh," said the old man, unchaining the horse from the plough, and turning him loose in the pasture; "young folks _think_ old folks are fools; old folks _know_ young folks to be so."

Pat eyed the doctor, scratched his head, and began slowly to lay the stone wall.

"What's _that_ fellow doing over yonder?" said the doctor to Pat.

"Planting corn, yer honor."

"Corn? ha! ha! city farming! Good. Corn? That's just the spot for potatoes. H-a-l-l-o there! Don't plant any more corn in that spot, John; it never'll come to anything--never."