"Quick on my feet, dearie," said Ruth. "But you have so much quicker a mind."
"Flatterer!" returned the other, yet the smile lingered upon the thin face and made it the sweeter.
The miller was turning, grumblingly, back into the shadowy interior of the mill, when Ruth hailed him.
"Oh, Uncle!" she cried. "Let me help you."
"What's that?" he demanded, wheeling again to look at her from under his shaggy eyebrows.
Now, Ruth Fielding was worth looking at. She was plump, but not too plump; and she was quick in her movements, while her lithe and graceful figure showed that she possessed not only health, but great vitality. Her hair was of a beautiful bright brown color, was thick, and curled just a little.
In her tanned cheeks the blood flowed richly—the color came and went with every breath she drew, it seemed, at times. That was when she was excited. But ordinarily she was of a placid temperament, and her brown eyes were as deep as wells. She possessed the power of looking searchingly and calmly at one without making her glance either impertinent or bold.
In her dark skirt, middy blouse, and black stockings and low shoes, she made a pretty picture as she stood under the tree, although her features were none of them perfect. Her cheeks were perhaps a little too round; her nose—well, it was not a dignified nose at all! And her mouth was generously large, but the teeth gleaming behind her red lips were even and white, and her smile lit up her whole face in a most engaging manner.
"Do let me help you, Uncle. I know I can," she repeated, as the old miller scowled at her.
"What's that?" he said again. "Go with me in that punt to Tim Lakeby's?"