"Ye don't say!" snapped the miller. "And who ain't, I'd like to know?"
"Her rheumatism is much worse, and it will soon be winter."
"Say! what air ye tryin' to do?" he demanded. "Tellin' me these here puffictly obvious things! Of course she's gittin' older; and of course her rheumatiz is bound to grow wuss. Doctors ain't never yet found nothin' to cure rheumatiz. And winter us'ally follers fall—even in this here tarnation climate."
"Well, but the combination is going to be very bad for Aunt Alvirah," Ruth said gently, determined to pursue her idea to the finish, no matter how cross he appeared to be.
"Wal, is it my fault?" asked Uncle Jabez.
"It's nobody's fault," Ruth told him, shaking her head, and very serious. "But it's Aunt Alvirah's misfortune."
"Huh!"
"And we must do something about it."
"Huh! Must we? What, I'd like to have ye tell me?" said the old miller, eyeing Ruth much as one strange dog might another that he suspected was after his best marrow bone.
"We must get somebody to help her do the work while I am at college," Ruth said firmly.