“Try giving them away,” she suggested.
“Givin’ ’em away!” Mr. Pithey glared at her.
“Giving them away,” repeated Ruth firmly. “Now sit down here while I tell you all about it.”
Ruth herself was sitting on a heap of stubble by the side of the corn field, with little Moira Kent tucked close to her side.
Mr. Pithey had one of his little girls with him, and both were dressed as usual in new and expensive clothing. They looked at Ruth’s heap of stubble with evident suspicion, then the child advanced a step towards her.
“Are you going to tell us a story?”
Ruth smiled. “If you like I will,” she said.
The child’s rather commonplace pert little face broke into an answering smile. She took out a very fine lace-bordered handkerchief and spread it carefully on the ground. Then she sat down on it with her legs sticking out in front of her.
Mr. Pithey resigned himself to the inevitable, and let his well-groomed heavy body gingerly down too. During the wet weather of July the little blue-faced lady had contracted pneumonia and very nearly died. Racked with anxiety, for family ties were dear to him, Mr. Pithey’s inflation and self-importance had failed him, and between him and Ruth a queer friendship had arisen.
“She cared—she really cared,” he explained afterward to his wife.